yq  5TOEV  OF  Y1  ANCIENT  H°05E  IPOmCH 
IN  Y1  SEVENTLENTH  CENTURY 


-  ~ 

240  Long   ueach  Blvd. 
Long   Beach   2,  Calif. 


A    KING'S    RANSOM. 


A  KING'S 
RANSOM. 


BY    THE     AUTHOR     OF 

THE   MARTYRS  OP 
THE   CORNHILL. 


FOURTH      EDITION. 


W.    E.    HARRISON,    THE    ANCIENT    HOUSE, 
IPSWICH     :::::::::      MDCCCCIX. 


Copyright,  Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall. 


Printed  at  The  Ancient   House  Press,  Ipswich. 


MO'- 


SRLG 
URL 


"  Now,  true  love 

No  such  effects  doth  prove ; 
That  is  an  essence  far  more  gentle,  fine, 

Pure,  perfect,  nay,  divine  ; 
It  is  a  golden  chain  let  down  from  heaven, 

Whose  links  are  bright  and  even  : 
That  falls  like  sleep  on  lovers,  and  combines 

The  soft  and  sweetest  minds 
In  equal  knots." 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER    I.  1 

London  Bridge. 

CHAPTER    II.          -  15 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Bull,  Colchester. 

CHAPTER    III.       -  31 

Mote  End. 

CHAPTER    IV.        -  42 

Home  Coming. 

CHAPTER   V.         -  59 

The  Chimney  Recess. 

CHAPTER   VI.        -  76 

The  Ninth  Gable. 

CHAPTER   VII.      -  92 

Alice's  Garden. 

CHAPTER   VIII.    -  110 

An  Unexpected  Guest. 

CHAPTER    IX.        -  .  127 

Recognition. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER   X.          -  144 

Father  Martin. 

CHAPTER    XI.        -  159 

The  Face  at  the  Window. 

CHAPTER   XII.      -  175 

A  Night  Watch. 

CHAPTER    XIII.    -  191 

The  Escape. 

CHAPTER    XIV.     -  206 

The  Price  of  the  Ransom. 

CHAPTER    XV.      -  218 

The  End. 


LIST  OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

CHARLES  II. 

EXTERIOR  OF  THE  ANCIENT  HOUSE, 
OLD  BUTTER  MARKET,  IPSWICH. 

THE  OAK  PANELLED  ROOM. 
THE  CHAPEL. 


CHARLKS  n. 

I'roin  an  original  portrait  in  tlie  possession  of  the  author. 


A  KING'S   RANSOM 


C  HAPTE  R    I. 

LONDON    BRIDGE. 


It  was  a  brilliant  afternoon,  in  the  summer  of  the  year 
of  grace  1651.  Even  late  in  the  day  the  August  sun 
was  intolerably  fierce.  Out  in  the  open  country,  the 
work  of  ripening  corn  and  fruit  was  almost  done ;  here 
in  London  City,  the  rays  beat  down  into  crowded  alleys 
and  narrow  lanes,  and  made  them  close  and  sultry,  like 
streets  of  an  Eastern  town.  But  nowhere  did  the  sun- 
beams rest  more  gaily  than  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the 
river  Thames.  They  shone  upon  the  stately  palaces 
and  beautiful  gardens  with  which  its  banks  were  lined, 
caught  the  edges  of  the  leaves  rustling  in  the  breeze, 
and  sparkled  in  a  thousand  lights  upon  the  rippled 
surface  of  the  water. 

There  was  scarcely  a  view  in  all  England  which,  for 
historic  and  picturesque  interest,  could  equal  the  sight 
from  old  London  Bridge.  To  the  North  rose  the  still 
graceful  structure  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  The  beauti- 
ful spire,  for  centuries  the  pride  of  the  City,  had  been 
burnt  down  in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  an 
insignificant  tower  substituted  for  it.  The  South  tran- 
sept, designed  by  Inigo  Jones,  had  been  hastily  pulled 
down  by  the  Parliament  for  the  sake  of  the  scaffolding, 
and  part  of  the  Cathedral  with  it ;  and  the  interior  had 
been  sadly  desecrated  by  the  Puritans.  Still,  however, 
to  outward  seeming,  the  building  was  the  noblest  in 
London. 

Close  to  the  end  of  the  bridge  stood  a  confused  mass 
of  houses,  the  hall  and  offices,  as  we  should  now  call 
them,  of  the  Fishmongers'  Guild.  Somewhat  shorn  of 


2  .  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

their  splendour  were  these  Fishmongers,  since  the  rigid 
Puritan  regime  had  abolished  the  demand  for  fish  in 
Lent.  One  branch  of  their  profit  had  been  struck  at, 
but  in  a  great  seafaring  country  like  England,  the  Fish- 
mongers were  always  certain  to  rank  among  the  chief 
commercial  Guilds. 

Nearer  the  bridge  the  houses  were  crowded  together 
in  strange  proximity.  Further  on,  where  the  streets 
were  wider  and  fewer,  the  river  swept  round  in  a  grand 
curve,  bound  in,  not  by  stiff  embankments,  or  a  ragged 
border  of  mud  and  rotting  hovels,  but  fringed  to  the 
water's  edge  with  a  beautiful  varied  line  of  palaces, 
houses,  gardens,  and  stately  water  gates,  designed  by 
the  first  artists  in  Europe. 

The  road  stretched  on  to  the  twin  town  of  West- 
minster, where  the  houses  grew  thicker  again  round  the 
beautiful  Abbey  Church  of  Edward  the  Confessor.  This 
noble  street  of  palaces  somewhat  resembled  the  build- 
ings on  the  canals  of  Venice,  save  that  every  house  was 
embowered  in  trees.  For  in  those  days,  when  locomotion 
by  land  presented  innumerable  difficulties,  the  Thames 
was  the  great  highway  of  London.  Every  house  of  the 
better  class  had  its  private  landing  place  and  boat,  and 
the  broad  river  was  always  covered  with  barges, 
wherries,  gaily  painted  skiffs,  and  crafts  of  all  kinds.  On 
a  fine  summer  afternoon,  the  citizens  of  London  were 
accustomed  to  take  the  air  on  the  river  by  hundreds. 

In  the  distance,  plainly  visible  across  the  streets  and 
gardens,  orchards  and  fields,  which  lay  between,  rose 
the  wooded  heights  of  Hampstead  and  Highgate,  and 
Harrow  beyond  them,  a  conspicuous  landmark  for  miles. 
From  the  London  of  that  day  to  these  outlying  districts 
all  was  open  country,  and  the  same  strange  sight  of 
trees  and  green  fields  stretched  along  the  Surrey  side 
of  the  river.  For  perhaps  half-a-mile  inland  there  were 
a  few  streets,  but  only  one  was  continued  in  a  straight, 
unbroken  line,  the  great  highway  which  ran  to  Dover 
and  Canterbury. 

Not  far  from  the  bridge  foot,  as  the  Southwark  end 
of  the  bridge  was  called,  was  the  splendid  palace 


LONDON    BRIDGE.  3 

of  the  Bishop  of  Winchester.  He,  poor  man,  like  all 
his  brother  prelates,  had  fared  badly  in  the  rapid 
vicissitudes  of  the  times.  The  Puritans,  to  whom 
Prelacy  was  only  less  obnoxious  than  Popery,  had  sent 
him  about  his  business  as  soon  as  they  obtained  the 
upper  hand.  His  Palace  had  been  first  turned  into  a 
prison  by  the  Parliament,  and  then,  the  necessity  being 
urgent  for  ready  money,  it  had  been  sold,  some  two 
years  before,  to  the  highest  bidder. 

But  the  bridge  itself  was  even  more  wonderful  than 
the  view  from  it.  Not  a  wide,  open  space,  with  low 
walls  and  broad  pavements  :  but  a  street  of  tall,  narrow 
houses,  with  all  the  picturesque  defects  of  the  archi- 
tecture of  those  days.  It  was  supported  by  eighteen 
piers  of  different  shapes  and  sizes,  and  upon  these  piers, 
or  "  starlings "  as  they  were  called,  as  many  houses 
were  crowded  together  as  space  would  permit.  These 
were  mostly  built  across  from  side  to  side,  a  covered 
passage,  as  dark  as  a  tunnel,  being  pierced  through 
them,  along  which  passengers  painfully  groped  their 
way.  One  huge  house,  a  fantastically  carved  wooden 
building,  called  Nonsuch  House,  had  been  erected  upon 
the  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  common  report  declared 
that  it  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland  in  pieces, 
and  put  together  with  wooden  pegs.  A  little  further  on 
was  an  ancient  chapel,  curiously  built  into  one  of  the 
buttresses,  the  basement  of  which  could  be  entered  by 
steps  from  the  river  below.  Huge  waterworks  stood 
upon  the  northern  end ;  and  at  the  bridge  foot  there 
were  four  corn  mills,  built  out  on  stakes,  and  projecting 
far  into  the  river 

The  bridge  had  this  awkward  peculiarity,  that  the 
houses  were  continually  falling  down,  sometimes  as 
many  as  forty  at  once.  Considering  the  traffic,  how- 
ever, and  the  mass  of  buildings  which,  in  the  course  of 
centuries,  had  accumulated  on  its  piers,  the  wonder  was, 
not  that  the  houses  occasionally  fell,  but  that  the  whole 
colossal  structure  had  not  long  since  subsided. 

To  a  casual  observer,  standing  on  the  bridge  that 
warm  August  afternoon,  it  might  have  seemed  as  if  the 


4  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

warlike  deeds,  which  had  often  been  enacted  on  it  in 
former  days,  were  about  to  be  repeated.  Some  unusual 
agitation  among  the  people  was  visible.  The  bridge  was 
thronged  with  armed  men  hastening  across  it  by  twos 
and  threes,  or  singly,  up  from  the  great  Kent  Road,  and 
the  various  other  ways  which  met  at  the  bridge  foot. 
Most  of  them  were  accoutred  in  leather  jerkins,  long 
heavy  boots,  and  steel  helmets.  A  few  were  fully  armed 
with  cuirasses,  shoulder  pieces,  and  greaves,  while  all 
had  swords  at  their  sides,  and  long  pikes  in  their  hands. 
Now  and  then  a  horseman  clattered  between  the  high, 
dark  houses,  with  still  bigger  boots,  and  heavier  breast- 
plate, and  longer  sword. 

Upon  the  face  of  every  man  was  a  look  of  solemn 
determination.  They  were  going  to  fight,  these  grim 
Ironsides,  and  to  fight  under  the  Lord  General 
Cromwell  meant  to  conquer  ;  but  not  a  feature  betrayed 
their  inward  satisfaction.  Yet  they  held  their  heads 
high,  like  men  who  knew  their  own  worth.  Time  was 
when  these  Puritans  had  crept  into  holes  and  corners, 
or  had  been  forced,  cap  in  hand,  to  ask  leave  to  live  of 
their  Cavalier  opponents.  Now,  such  of  the  Cavaliers 
as  ventured  to  appear  slunk  along  the  streets,  keeping 
out  of  sight  as  much  as  possible.  But  even  these  were 
few  ;  for  most  of  the  Royalists  were  either  up  in  the 
North  with  the  Scotch  Army,  or  lying  hidden  in  their 
own  or  their  friends'  houses,  trying,  and  often  in  vain, 
to  escape  the  vigilance  of  their  enemies. 

All  this  commotion,  on  the  bridge  and  elsewhere,  was 
occasioned  by  a  young  man,  scarcely  out  of  his  teens, 
known  variously  as  the  man  of  sin,  Charles  Stuart,  the 
King  of  Scots,  or  spoken  of  by  the  Royalists  with  bated 
breath  as  "  the  King."  Early  in  the  morning  of  this 
day  the  news  had  flown  through  London  that  this  youth, 
who  had  already  by  a  bold  stroke  penetrated  into 
England,  was  in  full  march  with  his  army  of  Scots  and 
Cavaliers  for  the  Capital.  The  Lord  General,  who  was 
following  closely  at  his  heels,  had  sent  an  express  for 
every  able-bodied  man  to  arm  and  join  him,  and  all  the 
old  Puritan  soldiers  were  flocking  up  to  London, 


LONDON    BRIDGE.  5 

meaning  to  push  on  from  thence  into  the  Midland 
Counties,  whither  the  tide  of  battle  had  turned. 

In  the  centre  of  the  bridge  was  an  open  space, 
formerly  much  used  for  lists  and  tournaments.  It  formed 
an  excellent  breathing  place,  where  the  passengers, 
emerging  hot  and  stifled  from  the  dark  tunnel  of  the 
houseways,  were  glad  to  pause,  and  enjoy  the  fresh  air 
which  came  up  from  the  river.  Here  a  couple  of  work- 
men were  busily  employed  in  examining  and  repairing 
part  of  the  under  structure  of  the  bridge.  A  young  man 
stood  watching  absently.  He  was  tall  and  finely  made, 
and  his  long  hair  and  picturesque  dress  showed  him  to 
be  one  of  the  proscribed  party  of  Royalists.  Evidently 
much  time  and  care  had  been  bestowed  upon  the  rich 
dark  curls  which  fell  over  his  shoulders,  and  his  glossy 
moustache  and  small  pointed  beard  were  carefully 
trimmed  after  the  fashion  of  the  late  "  martyred  "  king. 
He  wore  a  broad,  plumed,  felt  hat,  leather  boots  coming 
to  the  knee  and  frilled  with  lace,  long  gauntleted  gloves 
and  huge  spurs ;  the  rest  of  his  dress  was  hidden  under 
his  riding  cloak. 

But  one  glance  at  his  noble  forehead  and  broad  eager 
brow  sufficed  to  show  that  he  was  no  fop.  He  seemed, 
indeed,  far  too  pre-occupied  and  in  too  great  haste,  to 
concern  himself  about  the  impression  a  Royalist  might 
make  in  this  hot-bed  of  Puritanism.  For  the  last  ten 
minutes  he  had  been  curbing  his  impatience  with 
difficulty.  Sometimes  he  peered  restlessly  down  the 
lane  of  dark  houses  on  either  side  of  the  bridge  ;  some- 
times he  walked  to  and  fro  along  the  parapet,  and 
looked  down  into  the  sparkling  water  below.  Anon,  he 
took  up  his  station  near  one  of  the  buttresses,  and  tried 
to  school  himself  to  patience  by  watching  the  men. 

"  A  plague  upon  this  job  ! "  said  one  of  them,  lifting 
his  ruddy  face  from  a  link  of  the  chain  he  had  been 
carefully  testing.  "  Belike  it  will  never  be  needed  ;  the 
bridge  will  never  be  attacked.  Oliver  knows  his  work 
too  well  to  suffer  those  malignant  rogues  to  come  thus 
far." 

"  Friend,"  quoth  the  other  man,  gravely,  "  thy  speech 


6  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

is  ill-considered.  Firstly,  it  savoureth  not  of  the  Gospel, 
but  rather  of  that  profane  sin  of  swearing.  Secondly, 
thou  hast  spoken  lightly  of  dignities,  and  Holy  Writ 
saith  we  should  give  honour  to  those  that  are  set  in 
authority  over  us." 

"  Out  upon  you,  Master  Jeremiah !  "  returned  his 
companion,  testily.  "  What  harm  lieth  in  my  words  ? 
An  I  said,  '  A  plague  on't ' ;  I  meant  but  to  signify  the 
plagues  of  Egypt.  And  verily  'tis  a  plague  of  Egypt  to 
work  in  this  heat." 

"  Grudge  not  thy  labour  for  the  Lord's  elect,"  said 
the  second  workman.  "  Did  not  worthy  Master  Full-of 
Love  Stivers  bid  us,  at  the  last  monthly  fast,  '  what- 
soever we  did,  to  do  it  unto  the  Lord  '  ?  And,  prithee, 
how  wouldest  thou  be  better  occupied  than  in  labouring 
to  keep  those  accursed  malignants  out  of  the  Lord's 
City  of  London  ?  " 

"  To  keep  them  out,  say  you  ?  Why,  man,  they  stand 
at  our  very  elbow,"  rejoined  his  irritable  companion. 
And  touching  his  arm,  he  pointed  to  the  stranger,  whom 
neither  of  the  men  had  noticed.  "  Ay,  look  at  that  now. 
Think  you  we  keep  the  wolf  from  the  fold,  while  these 
same  fellows  prowl  about  our  city  ?  There's  mischief 
within,  and  mischief  without,  I  trow." 

His  fellow  looked  at  the  Cavalier.  "  And  what,  sir, 
might  your  business  be  ?  "  he  said,  insolently,  without 
doffing  his  cap.  "  We  would  fain  know  wherefore  you 
examine  us  thus.  We  like  not  such  close  watching  at 
our  work." 

The  stranger  started,  and  the  blood  shot  up  into  his 
face,  at  being  so  familiarly  accosted.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  clap  his  hand  to  his  sword,  but  the  next  moment 
he  controlled  himself. 

"  Friend,  I  do  thee  no  wrong,"  he  answered,  mildly. 
"  Doth  your  Christian  charity  forbid  a  man  to  look  at 
you  ?  May  he  not  stand  here  awhile  and  take  the  air 
by  the  river  ?  " 

"  Ay,  if  he  be  of  the  Lord's  people,  not  otherwise," 
replied  the  man.  "  And  he  be  one  of  your  drunken 
ruffling,  swearing  malignants,  let  him  not  come  hither. 


LONDON    BRIDGE.  7 

Such  an  one  is  not  fit  to  live.  Away  with  him  from  the 
earth ! ' ' 

None  of  these  abusive  epithets  seemed  applicable  to 
the  stranger,  but  the  look  of  dignified  contempt  with 
which  he  met  them  appeared  still  further  to  incense  the 
men.  Laying  aside  their  tools,  they  advanced  towards 
him  as  if  ready  to  carry  their  words  into  effect. 

"  Sir,  we  would  have  you  to  know,"  said  the  one, 
"  that  in  the  Lord's  City  of  London  we  suffer  none  but 
the  godly." 

"A  Papist,  Master  Jeremiah!"  muttered  the  other. 
"  Think  you  not  he  hath  the  look  of  a  spy  ?  " 

"  None  of  the  accursed  brood  of  Papists  and  Prelatists 
will  we  harbour  here.  Get  you  gone  in  haste." 

"  We  are  two  to  one.  Twere  easiest  to  throw  him 
into  the  river,  and  make  an  end  of  him  forthwith." 

As  good  luck  would  have  it,  a  fourth  person  intervened 
in  what  threatened  to  become  a  dangerous  street  fray. 

"  Forbear ! "  exclaimed  a  voice  from  behind,  and  a 
hand  was  suddenly  laid  upon  the  Royalist's  shoulder. 
"  Thou  art  here,  Ralph  !  I  thank  thee  with  all  my 
heart,"  continued  the  new  comer.  "  The  Lord  hath 
surely  brought  thee  hither."  Then,  turning  to  the 
workmen,  the  speaker  said  :  "  Good,  Christian  brethren, 
I  pray  you,  harm  not  this  noble  gentleman.  He  is  mine 
own  particular  friend,  and  albeit  not  one  of  us,  I  will 
answer  for  his  honour  with  my  life." 

The  Cavalier  turned,  and  grasped  his  friend's  hand. 
There  was  no  fear  in  his  eyes,  only  a  look  of  relief,  at 
his  escape  from  so  undignified  a  squabble.  Then  both 
the  friends  smiled,  as  if  the  mere  sight  of  each  other 
were  a  happiness.  The  workmen  slunk  back  to  their 
task,  and  without  further  notice  of  them  the  new  comer 
took  his  companion  by  the  arm,  and  led  him  into  a  small 
recess  formed  by  the  solid  masonry  of  the  bridge,  where 
they  could  carry  on  their  conversation  undisturbed. 

Puritan  and  Cavalier!  It  was  a  strange  sight,  in 
those  fanatical  days,  to  see  two  men,  whose  very  dress 
proclaimed  them  of  opposite  creeds,  in  familiar  discourse. 
For  assuredly  the  last  comer  would  not  have  found  it  so 


8  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

easy  to  extricate  the  Royalist  from  his  precarious 
position,  had  not  his  stiff  and  sombre  attire  marked  him 
out  as  a  Puritan.  He  was  younger  by  several  years 
than  his  companion,  slenderly  made,  and  thin  and  worn. 
His  close-cropped  hair  gave  no  relief  to  his  pale  face, 
and  brought  his  small  ears  into  unnatural  prominence ; 
his  forehead  was  high  and  narrow,  the  chin  large,  the 
lower  jaw  projecting.  Not  a  handsome  man  by  any 
means,  only  redeemed,  in  fact,  from  absolute  plainness 
by  his  large,  dark  eyes.  Sometimes  they  kindled  with 
sudden  fire,  sometimes  they  were  soft  and  pensive ; 
and  there  was  always  an  earnest,  wistful  look  in  them, 
which  attracted  people  in  spite  of  themselves.  Perhaps 
those  eager  eyes  accounted  partly  for  the  glance  of 
loving  concern  his  friend  cast  at  him,  as  they  went 
across  the  bridge. 

To  outward  appearance,  no  two  men  could  be  more 
unlike.  The  young  Puritan's  sad  coloured  coat,  his 
plain  hose,  and  the  stiff  linen  collar  and  cuffs  which  had 
almost  become  the  badge  of  his  sect,  did  not  differ  more 
widely  from  the  Cavalier's  graceful  flowing  dress,  than 
did  his  spare  figure  from  the  other's  splendid  physique. 
And,  as  if  to  point  the  contrast  between  them,  the 
Puritan  limped  slightly  in  his  walk,  a  sore  defect  in  war- 
like times,  when  a  man's  life  often  depended  on  his 
strength  and  soundness  of  limb. 

"  Still  lame,  Roger  ?  "  were  the  Cavalier's  first  words, 
as  the  friends  reached  the  sheltering  recess  in  the 
masonry,  and  sat  down.  "  I  heard  thou  hadst  gotten  a 
hurt.  Hath  it  not  healed  ?  " 

"  Yea,  Ralph,  still  lame,"  he  answered,  "  else  were  I 
not  here,  and  had  not  brought  thee  into  this  peril. 
Prithee,  friend,  forgive  me.  I  knew  not  that  our  Puritan 
folk  were  so  bitter  against  those  of  thy  party." 

"  The  danger  to  me  was  nothing,"  rejoined  the  other 
with  a  curl  of  the  lip.  "  I  had  knocked  both  the  knaves 
over  with  a  cut  of  my  sword  an  I  had  chosen  to  draw 
it.  But  leave  that  matter.  I  have  come  hither  at  some 
pains  to  myself,  and  since  we  are  met  at  last,  let  us  not 
waste  our  words  on  trifles.  Tell  me  first  news  of  thee 


LONDON    BRIDGE.  9 

and  thine.  How  fares  thy  mother  ?  And  thy  foot,  what 
is  this  trouble  with  it  ?  " 

"  My  mother  is  well,"  answered  Roger  Sparowe,  "  and 
would  greet  thee  heartily,  knew  she  of  our  meeting. 
Touching  this  foot  of  mine,  'tis  an  obstinate  wound  I  had 
in  Scotland  last  year,  which  will  not  fully  heal,  and  the 
physicians  cannot  set  it  right.  It  troubleth  me  some- 
what," he  went  on.  "Here  am  I  stayed  in  idleness, 
when  I  would  fain  be  in  my  place  in  the  Lord  Genei  al's 
Army,  fighting  against  the  ungodly." 

"  Whereof  I  am  one,"  rejoined  his  friend  with  a  smile. 
"  I  owe  thy  foot  no  grudge,  then,  since  it  keeps  thee 
here,  and  gives  us  one  enemy  the  less.  Roger,  dost 
know  that,  save  for  this  foot  of  thine,  we  might  be 
arrayed  against  each  other  in  battle  ?  " 

"  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done !  "  said  Roger,  lapsing 
into  a  slightly  drawling  Puritanical  tone.  "  A  worthy 
minister  in  this  city  told  me  that  the  Lord  hath  often- 
times as  much  work  for  them  that  bide  at  home,  as  for 
those  that  go  forth  to  the  fight.  And  I  strive  to  believe 
it,  but  faith  is  weak." 

Now  it  was  noticeable  that  the  Royalist,  who  had 
listened  to  the  workmen's  choice  biblical  language  with 
an  ironical  smile,  winced  whenever  the  same  stilted 
phraseology  fell  from  his  friend's  lips.  But  Roger 
Sparowe  spoke  in  so  earnest  a  tone,  that  his  words 
carried  conviction  of  his  own  belief  in  them,  and  the 
Cavalier  listened  in  silence. 

"  To  our  business !  "  he  said  at  last.  "  Prithee,  friend, 
let  it  be  brief.  This  very  day  was  I  to  have  taken  my 
journey  to  the  North,  and  have  delayed  it  only  to  come 
hither." 

As  he  spoke,  he  opened  his  cloak,  and  Roger  saw  that 
his  friend  was  accoutred  in  the  buff  coat  and  small  steel 
throatlet,  which  was  all  the  armour  the  Cavaliers 
deigned  to  wear,  when  opposed  to  such  despised  enemies 
as  the  Puritans. 

"  This  is  my  business,"  said  Roger,  laying  his  hand  on 
his  friend's  arm,  "To  pray  thee,  Ralph,  as  thou 
vainest  thine  own  soul,  not  to  join  that  impious  army. 


10  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Evil  will  come  of  it,  of  that  I  am  fully  persuaded.  The 
Man  of  Sin  shall  not  be  suffered  to  work  his  will.  He 
'  shall  be  taken  out  of  the  way,  whom  the  Lord  shall 
consume  with  the  spirit  of  His  mouth.'  'Twas  at  that 
text  I  opened  my  Bible  in  the  evening  exercise  yesterday, 
and  straightway,  when  I  lighted  upon  it,  I  was  constrained 
to  send  for  thee,  and  pray  thee  not  to  go." 

"Forbear!"  cried  the  Cavalier,  hotly.  "Another 
word  will  cost  thee  our  friendship.  Roger,  I  had  not 
thought  it  of  thee,  that  thou  couldest  desire  me  to  do 
this  foul  dishonour  to  myself  and  our  cause. 

"  Tis  no  dishonour  to  do  that  which  shall  save  thy 
soul  alive.  I  tell  thee,  Ralph  Wentworth,  thou  art 
fighting,  not  against  man,  but  against  the  Lord." 

"  Then  let  Him  see  to  it,"  answered  Wentworth, 
fiercely.  "  Of  what  worth  is  my  poor  soul  beside  our 
noble  cause  ?  I  give  my  body  willingly  in  the  king's 
service ;  my  soul  may  fare  as  it  will." 

"  Blaspheme  not,  friend,"  said  Roger,  solemnly. 
"  Thy  soul  which  I  seek  to  save  is  more  precious  even 
than  our  friendship.  Friendship  is  much,  but  what 
shall  a  man  give,  saith  Holy  Writ,  in  exchange  for  his 
soul ?  " 

"  Ay,  your  souls,  your  souls !  "  retorted  Wentworth, 
bitterly.  Ye  think  of  naught  but  your  own  souls,  ye 
Puritans.  Ye  have  no  thought  to  bestow  upon  honour, 
which  is  more  than  life  itself.  Look  thee,  Roger.  Wilt 
thou  not  understand  that  a  man  may  forget  himself, 
body  and  soul,  for  the  sake  of  another  ?  Can  ye  not 
endure  it,  ye  Puritans,  if  a  man  is  loyal  to  his  king?" 

The  hot  blood  rushed  into  Wentworth's  face,  and  his 
dark  eyes  sparkled.  Not  one  of  Cromwell's  Ironsides 
could  have  looked  sterner  or  more  resolute. 

"Thou  dost  misapprehend,"  said  Roger.  "  This  king 
of  thine,  by  whom  thou  settest  such  store,  is  no  king, 
but  a  puppet  in  the  hands  of  the  Scots.  'Tis  no  man's 
duty  to  serve  him." 

"  He  is  my  king,"  returned  Wentworth  firmly. 
"  Roger,  thou  wouldest  make  of  me  a  craven  coward, 
dishonoured  and  disgraced." 


LONDON    BRIDGE.  11 

"To  fight  in  an  evil  cause  is  not  honour." 

"  Ours  is  no  evil  cause,"  rejoined  Wentworth,  "  We 
fight  for  God,  and  king,  and  country,  and  none  can  take 
up  arms  more  worthily.  If  thou  speak  of  duty,  know 
that  the  king  hath  a  divine  right  to  our  allegiance,, 
which  no  man,  an  he  be  not  a  rank  rebel,  can  refuse 
him." 

11  It  lies  not  in  the  power  of  one  man  to  rule  over 
another's  conscience,"  answered  Roger.  "  God  is  our 
King.  We  owe  no  allegiance  to  Caesar.  Shall  we,  who 
have  felt  the  misery  of  one  earthly  king,  choose  us 
another  ?  " 

"  How  choose  him  ?  "  replied  Wentworth,  frowning, 
"  How  meanest  thou  that  ?  Doth  a  man  choose  his 
father  or  mother  ?  Neither  can  he  choose  under  what 
king  he  will  serve.  The  right  to  rule  cometh  of  Godr 
and  not  of  man." 

"Alas,  Ralph,  I  perceive  that  thou  art  yet  in  outer 
darkness,"  cried  Roger.  "  Thine  heart  is  enslaved  by 
the  prince  of  this  world.  The  Lord  grant  thee  light  I 
As  for  this  mock  king  of  thine,  Charles  Stuart,  the  boy 
who  hath  been  playing  at  kingship  awhile  in  the  North, 
how  hath  he  any  claim  on  thee  ?  " 

"  Roger,  try  me  not  too  far,"  exclaimed  Wentworth, 
fiercely.  "  Even  from  thee  I  cannot  brook  this.  What ! 
would'st  have  me  forsake  the  king  because  he  is  poor 
and  in  trouble  ?  He  doth  but  need  me,  and  every  man 
who  can  help  him,  the  more." 

"  I  would  have  thee  think  of  thyself  and  of  thy  certain 
ruin.  Thou  art  blind,  Ralph,  and  dost  not  see  that  the 
king  of  Scots  must  fail.  He  hath  but  10,000  men  with 
him,  half-hearted  knaves,  who  follow  him  because  their 
leaders  drive  them.  And  all  England  is  against  him. 
Hast  ever  heard  yet  that  the  Lord  General  and  his 
Ironsides  were  beaten  !  Come  back,  Ralph,  and  abide 
with  me,  and  I  pledge  my  own  life  that  not  a  hair  of 
thine  head  shall  be  hurt." 

"  No  more  of  this !  "  cried  Wentworth,  half  beside 
himself  with  indignation.  "  Is  this  the  language  which 
befits  a  Sparowe  and  a  gentleman  ?  I  tell  thee  the  very 


12  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

stones  would  cry  out  against  me,  were  I  guilty  of  such 
base  treachery.  Ye  are  all  the  same,  ye  Puritans. 
Selfish  are  ye,  everv  one  of  you." 

"  Selfish  !  "  cried  Roger,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  Selfish, 
sayest  thou,  when  I  have  risked  our  ancient  friendship 
to  plead  with  thee  ?  " 

The  two  friends  stopped,  and  looked  at  each  other. 
•"  Is  it  so,  Roger?  "  said  Wentworth,  more  gently,  after 
a  pause.  "  Nay,  then,  let  us  bethink  ourselves,  ere  we 
suffer  bitter  words  to  part  us." 

Roger's  eyes  grew  moist.  "  I  could  almost  give  thee 
up,  Ralph,  even  thee,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  did  my 
conscience  bid  us." 

"  It  shall  not  be,"  answered  Wentworth.  "  We  will 
hold  to  each  other,  let  happen  what  will  to  king  or 
general.  The  war  of  creeds  shall  not  part  us ;  we  are 
too  closely  bound." 

"  Would  God  it  had  been  closer,"  said  Roger,  with  a 
sigh.  "  Had  Mary  lived,  she  had  made  thee  one  of  us, 
Ralph.  She  perchance,  had  kept  thee  from  rushing  on 
thine  own  ruin." 

Wentworth  pushed  away  Roger  Sparowe's  hand.  "  It 
is  not  well  to  speak  of  these  things,"  he  said,  hastily. 
"  Thou  doest  not  wisely,  Roger,  to  stir  sleeping  sorrows. 
Enough  that  the  past  is  past.  '  jfe  me  contented  " 

"  The  Lord's  will  be  done  1 "  returned  Roger.  "  But, 
oh  !  'tis  hard  to  see  thee  going  to  destruction,  Ralph. 
Will  nought  move  thee  ?  " 

"  Nought,  my  friend,"  was  Wentworth's  quiet  answer. 
"  That  which  is  my  duty  I  must  do — and  thou  too. 
Roger,  are  we  friends  ?  Never,  methinks,  in  two  hundred 
years,  hath  the  friendship  between  Sparowe  and 
Wentworth  been  strained  so  nearly  to  the  breaking 
point  as  to-day.  Hath  it  stood  the  test  ?  " 

"  'Twas  no  test  with  me,  Ralph.     Thou  art  the  same 

*  At  the  battle  of  Hexham  John  Sparowe  and  his  friend  Wentworth  fought  side 
by  side.  As  they  both  lay  a-dying,  a  double  motto  was  bestowed  upon  them,  to 
commemorate  their  value  and  friendship.  The  motto  given  to  John  Sparowe, 
which  has  been  borne  by  the  family  from  that  time,  was  "  Ncscia  sola  inori:" 
"  Unable  to  die  alone."  To  which  the  dying  Wentworth  is  said  to  have 
answered:  "Je  tne  contents." 


LONDON    BRIDGE.  13 

to  me  as  ever.  I  sought  but  to  save  thee,  and  since  the 
Lord  willeth  not  thy  salvation  through  me,  unto  Him 
I  commit  thee." 

The  two  men  wrung  each  other's  hands,  and  for  a 
moment  there  was  silence  so  profound,  that  they  could 
hear  the  water  lapping  softly  against  the  buttresses 
below.  Then  speaking  with  assumed  carelessness, 
Wentworth  asked : 

"  And  how  fares  my  friend,  Walter  ?  Doth  he  remain 
with  thee,  or  comes  he  to  the  war,  to  win  his  knightly 
spurs." 

"  Walter  abides  at  home,"  answered  Roger  gravely. 
"While  I  am  master  in  our  house,  he  must  submit 
himself  to  me.  And  since  he  will  not  fight  on  the  Lord's 
side,  I  will  not  suffer  him  to  join  the  battle.  He  is  young 
and  weak,  and  hath  readily  yielded  to  my  desires." 

Wentworth  shot  a  keen  sharp  look  at  his  friend,  and 
a  smile,  instantly  repressed,  curled  his  lips,  but  he  made 
no  comment.  "  Farewell,  Roger,"  he  said  after  another 
pause.  "  For  thy  sake  I  desire  it  may  be  as  thou 
wouldest  have  it — for  mine  own  scarcely.  I  dare  not 
tarry  longer.  There  are  others  who  wait  for  me. 
When  shall  we  meet  again,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  answered  Roger  sadly.  "  None  can- 
say  what  may  betide  on  the  morrow.  These  be 
troublous  times,  Ralph.  But  our  bond  of  friendship 
standeth  sure  ?  " 

Wentworth  nodded,  and  Roger  went  on :  "  Forget 
not  if  thou  art  in  want  or  trouble,  that  thou  hast  a 
friend.  I  hold  it  sinful  to  swear,  but  I  give  thee  mine 
hand  here  before  the  Lord,  that  I  will  not  fail  thee  in 
any  stress.  If  the  battle  go  against  you — as  it  must 
do,  ye  have  not  a  third  of  our  men — all  I  have  is  thine. 
Make  thy  way  to  me,  and  I  will  hide  thee." 

"A  man  may  lose  his  head  for  saying  as  much," 
said  Wentworth  significantly.  "  I  thank  thee,  Roger. 
There  spoke  thy  noblest  self.  But  be  at  ease ;  I  shall 
not  put  thee  to  the  proof.  We  shall  not  lose.  The 
goodness  of  our  cause  will  give  each  man  the  strength 
of  ten.  Nay,  forsooth,"  he  continued  with  a  sad  smile  ;• 


14  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

•"  It  may  the  rather  be  that  thou  wilt  need  protection  of 
me,  and  thou  shalt  have  it,  fear  not." 

Then  the  two  men  laid  their  hands  on  each  others 
shoulders,  and  kissed  each  other  solemnly,  after  the 
more  demonstrative  fashion  of  those  times. 

"  Farewell,  Ralph,"  said  Roger,  mournfully.  "  Alas, 
that  it  should  be  farewell !  that  we  fight  not  side  by 
side  !  Surely  'tis  a  judgment  of  the  Lord  upon  me  that 
all  I  love — mother,  brother,  friend — should  be  against 
tne." 

"  Nay,  not  all  of  us,"  said  Wentworth,  with  a  smile. 
•*'  Be  not  so  sad-hearted.  Methinks  I  have  heard  talk  of 
a  fair  Puritan  damsel,  who  seest  these  things  as  thou 
dost,  down  there  in  Suffolk.  Come,  man,  pluck  up  thy 
spirit.  How  stands  it  with  thee  ?  Hath  report  spoken 
true  ?  " 

"  These  be  no  times  to  think  of  love,"  returned 
Roger,  but  his  averted  face  was  crimson.  "  'Tis  war 
and  bitter  strife  with  which  we  are  concerned,  not  the 
courting  of  fair  ladies.  Once  more,  farewell !  and  the 
Lord  grant  thee  to  see  the  error  of  thy  way." 

And,  great  as  was  Wentworth's  need  to  be  gone, 
Roger  left  him  so  abruptly,  that  the  Puritan's  slight 
figure  had  already  vanished  into  the  dark  tunnel  between 
the  houses,  before  the  Royalist  turned,  and  made  for  the 
bridge  end,  where  his  horse  awaited  him. 


15 


CHAPTER   II. 

AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER. 


Emerging  from  the  northern  end  of  London  Bridge, 
Roger  stood  a  moment  in  a  gap  between  the  houses,  to 
recover  his  composure.  He  was  more  disturbed  by 
Wentworth's  last  words  than  he  cared  to  let  anyone 
see.  His  breath  came  and  went,  and  he  put  his  hand 
over  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  as  if  to  shut  out  some 
remembrance.  Had  he  not  been  so  moved,  he  would 
scarcely  have  stopped  in  a  place  few  Londoners  could 
pass  without  a  shudder.  For  just  above  him,  on  the 
gate  which  formed  the  northern  boundary  of  the  bridge, 
stood  a  row  of  pikes  which,  from  time  immemorial, 
had  been  adorned  with  the  heads  of  traitors. 
Fortunately  this  spectacle,  with  other  relics  of  barbarism, 
had  fallen  into  disuse,  and  no  such  ghastly  sight 
disgraced  the  Puritan  government. 

From  this  point  Roger  could  see  the  wide  and 
beautiful  curve  of  the  river  as  far  as  Westminster. 
The  Abbey  church,  still  spireless,  though  it  had  been 
begun  six  centeries  ago,  stood  out  from  amid  a  group 
of  houses.  Nearer  rose  the  stately  pile  of  Whitehall, 
the  scene  of  a  certain  tragedy,  more  than  two  years 
ago,  on  which  few  Englishmen,  whether  Puritans  or 
Cavaliers,  cared  to  reflect.  The  houses  which  reached 
from  Westminster  to  the  foot  of  the  bridge  were  as 
varied  in  the  purposes  to  which  they  were  put,  as  in 
their  outward  appearance.  By  the  side  of  a  palace 
stood  a  brew-house,  the  manufacture  of  beer,  before 
the  introduction  of  tea,  being  an  important  article  of 
commerce.  Beyond  this  was  a  cluster  of  small  houses, 
built  almost  into  the  water,  their  upper  stories  raised 
on  piles ;  while  further  down  the  river  rose  the  Tower, 
still  the  chief  fortress  of  the  capital. 


16  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

People  in  those  days,  however,  did  not  concern  them- 
selves much  with  the  picturesque.  Life  was  too  full  to 
leave  much  scope  to  the  imagination.  Roger  would 
have  thought  it  a  sin  to  stand  gazing  at  a  scene  which, 
to  his  country-bred  eyes,  was  at  least  impressive. 
Turning  to  the  right,  he  plunged  into  a  long  narrow  street 
running  by  the  side  of  the  river,  at  some  distance  from 
it.  Here  the  tall  houses,  with  their  quaint  pointed 
gables  and  high  sloping  roofs,  almost  touched  each 
other.  Only  a  slender  strip  of  air  and  light  was 
between  them,  and  this  was  nearly  choked  by  the  long 
poles  thrust  out  from  the  upper  windows,  on  which  the 
linen  of  the  household  was  hanging  to  dry. 

A  few  steps  further  brought  the  traveller  to  the  inn 
where  he  had  taken  up  his  quarters  two  days  ago.  It 
was  a  handsome,  roomy  building,  with  gables  and  rich 
fantastic  carvings,  and  fine  "pargetting"  work.  Inns 
in  those  days  of  posting  and  riding  across  country  were 
not  the  puny  establishments  to  which  they  have 
dwindled.  The  inn  where  Roger  lodged  was  built  round 
a  court-yard.  The  upper  stories  on  two  sides  projected, 
and,  in  the  wide  roofed  space  between  them,  huge 
travelling  coaches  were  stowed  away  in  safety,  horses 
stabled  and  groomed,  and  room  found  for  the  army  of 
serving  men  who  accompanied  travellers  of  rank  on 
their  journeys. 

In  former  days  the  court-yards  of  these  large  inns, 
with  their  many  recesses  and  commodious  galleries 
above,  had  often  been  used  for  dramatic  representations. 
Many  were  the  plays  which,  in  the  merry  times  of  good 
Queen  Bess,  had  been  witnessed,  again  and  again,  from 
these  very  upper  windows; — things  whereon  a  good 
Puritan  could  not  reflect  without  a  shudder. 

The  business  which  had  brought  Roger  Sparowe  ta 
London  was  of  no  pleasant  nature.  One  of  the  first 
duties  which  fell  to  the  Long  Parliament  when,  some 
years  before,  they  took  the  administration  of  the 
country  into  their  hands,  was  to  provide  for  the  better 
government  of  the  church.  All  the  bishops,  and  most 
of  the  clergy,  had  followed  the  king.  The  common 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER.  17 

people  were  disgusted  with  the  elaborate  ritual  forced 
upon  them  by  Archbishop  Laud,  and  clamoured  for 
reform,  and  the  reaction  against  Prelacy  was  quickened 
by  the  massacre  of  the  Protestants  in  Ireland.  For 
nearly  twenty  years  the  Puritans  were  supreme  in 
Church  and  State. 

The  first  use  they  made  of  their  newly  acquired  power 
was  to  eject  all  the  ministers  of  the  Church  who  would 
not  swear  fealty  to  the  Parliament,  a  sweeping  measure 
which  touched  four-fifths  of  the  clergy.  It  was 
necessary  to  supply  their  places  without  delay.  The 
sheep  could  not  be  left  without  a  shepherd :  and  an 
Assembly  of  Divines  was  convened  by  the  Parliament  at 
Westminster  to  aid  them  in  the  bestowal  of  the  livings. 
But  though  these  men  laboured  zealously  to  recommend 
none  but  persons  fit  for  the  duty,  it  could  not  but 
happen  that  the  shepherds  were  often  hastily  chosen 
and  unworthy.  The  demand  for  "  preaching  ministers  " 
far  exceeded  the  supply,  and  the  most  unsuitable  pastors 
were  often  thrust  into  important  cures.  To  such  an 
one,  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  Roger  Sparowe,  and  some 
of  his  townsfolk,  had  been  confided  the  care  of  souls  in 
the  good  town  of  Ipswich.  It  was  to  procure  his 
removal  that  Roger,  after  due  complaint  lodged,  had,  at 
the  summons  of  the  Westminster  Assembly,  undertaken 
the  toilsome  journey  to  London. 

It  made  his  expedition  none  the  less  tedious  to  know 
that  the  other  members  of  his  family,  his  mother  and 
brother,  were  bitterly  averse  to  it.  If  Master  Obadiah 
Sturges  had  not  succeeded  in  winning  the  favour  of  the 
rest  of  his  parishioners,  he  had  at  least  found  his  way 
to  the  heart  of  Mistress  Margaret  Sparowe.  Mistress 
Sparowe  was  a  stauch  Royalist,  bigoted  for  Church 
and  King.  Yet — no  one  knew  why — she  was  devoted 
to  the  preacher  who,  by  mandate  of  the  Parliament, 
had  been  thrust  into  the  rich  Ipswich  living.  It  was  a 
singular  thing,  people  said,  and  served  to  increase  the 
suspicion  with  which  he  was  regarded. 

There  were  altogether  some  strange  anomalies  in  the 
Sparowe  family.  Here  was  Mistress  Margaret,  a  well- 


18  A   KING'S    RANSOM. 

known  Royalist,  sincerely,  almost  fanatically,  attached 
to  Prelacy,  who  yet  appeared  to  delight  in  the  minis- 
trations of  that  ultra-Calvinist,  and  faithful  servant 
of  God,  Master  Obadiah  Sturges.  And,  as  if  that  were 
not  enough,  Roger's  younger  brother,  Walter  Sparowe, 
had,  during  the  past  year,  shown  an  equal  attachment 
to  the  minister.  There  was  something  almost  ludicrous 
in  the  deferential  way  in  which  the  dashing  young 
Cavalier  treated  the  stiff,  sanctimonius  Puritan,  who 
was  so  rigid  in  conduct  and  doctrine,  that  the  good  folks 
of  Ipswich  were  fain  to  beg  for  a  less  strait-laced 
minister.  It  was  even  whispered  that  Walter  Sparowe 
had,  on  one  occasion,  sat  without  flinching  through  the 
six  hours  service  ordained  by  Parliament  at  the  fast  on 
the  last  Wednesday  in  every  month  ;  an  infliction  under 
which  even  the  most  rigid  Puritans  occasionally  grew 
restive.  "  A  sign  of  grace ! "  said  some  of  his 
neighbours  !  "  A  hypocritical  pretence !  "  answered 
others,  who  knew  better  the  stuff  of  which  the  wild 
young  fellow  was  made.  Strangest  of  all,  the  head  of 
the  Sparowe  house,  that  godly  youth,  Master  Roger, 
who  had  followed  in  the  steps  of  his  Puritan  father 
from  childhood,  seemed  to  view  this  singular  friendship 
between  his  scape-grace  brother  and  Master  Obadiah 
with  much  uneasiness.  To  the  surprise  of  the  towns- 
folk, he  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  movement  for 
the  removal  of  the  unpopular  minister. 

As  he  rode  into  the  Dean's  yard  at  Westminster, 
where  the  assembled  divines  were  holding  their  sittings, 
Roger  felt  himself  in  evil  case.  Life  never  went  easily 
with  him,  and  at  this  moment  the  burden  seemed 
heavier  than  usual.  His  sad  parting  with  Wentworth 
dwelt  in  his  mind.  The  task  on  which  he  was  engaged, 
though  of  vital  importance,  was  exceedingly  distasteful 
to  him.  It  was  his  aim  to  have  a  "conscience  void  of 
offence  towards  all  men,"  yet  his  present  object  was  to 
oust  a  man  with  whom  he  had  no  personal  quarrel,  from 
his  living.  And,  further,  he  was  distressed  by  the  sight 
of  the  soldiers  who  passed  him.  These  were  men 
inured  to  battle,  Ironsides  and  warlike  train  bands, 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER.  19 

going  forth  under  a  tried  and  well  beloved  leader  to 
almost  certain  victory.  He,  too,  had  it  not  been  for 
his  luckless  wound,  would  have  been  with  them. 

Ill  fortune  had  attended  Roger  in  all  his  military 
enterprises.  He  had  hurried  up  in  hot  haste  to 
Scotland  last  year,  only  to  arrive  too  late  for  the  battle 
of  Dunbar,  to  get  his  foot  crushed  in  an  obscure 
skirmish,  and  to  be  laid  aside  all  the  winter.  Mistress 
Margaret  had  tried  her  hand  at  healing  the  broken  bone, 
and  all  the  leeches  in  the  country  side,  but  to  no 
purpose.  Roger  did  not  console  himself  with  the 
thought  that  now  he  should  not  cross  swords  with 
Wentworth.  He  only  chafed  that  the  dream  of  his 
life  would  remain  unfulfilled,  and  he  would  never  win  a 
word  of  recognition  from  the  great  Puritan  general. 

Arrived  at  Westminster,  he  flung  himself  off  his 
horse,  and  asked  to  be  conducted  to  the  Assembly.  He 
was  brought  into  an  upper  room,  where  a  committee  of 
the  Divines  was  sitting.  But  here  he  fared  no  better 
than  he  might  have  expected.  These  learned  men  were 
already  somewhat  nettled  that  their  choice  of  a  minister 
had  been  called  in  question,  and  when  they  found  that 
the  charge  was  preferred  by  a  beardless  stripling,  who 
could  apparently  assign  no  reason  for  so  heavy  an 
accusation,  they  were  as  angry  as  such  grave  and 
reverend  men  ever  permitted  themselves  to  be. 

"  Methinks  your  townsfolk  had  shown  greater  honour 
to  this  Assembly,  by  sending  a  burgess  of  maturer 
age  to  represent  them,"  were  the  first  words  of 
the  prolocutor,  or,  as  he  would  now  be  called,  the 
chairman  of  the  committee. 

"  So  please  you,  all  our  able-bodied  men  have  gone 
forth  to  the  war,"  answered  Roger.  "  Our  city  is  left 
like  to  a  lodge  in  the  wilderness,  and  I  alone  remain,  by 
reason  of  a  certain  hurt  in  my  foot,  whereby  I  am 
hindered  from  fighting.  When  the  question  arose,  who 
should  come  hither  to  present  this  petition,  I  offered 
myself,  and  there  being  none  other,  the  town  elected  me." 

"  Better,  my  son,  to  have  remained  at  home,  than  to 
have  undertaken  so  long  and  toilsome  a  journey,"  said 


20  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

one  of  the  ministers.  "  Yours  will  prove  a  bootless 
errand,  I  fear." 

"  You  have  here  brought  a  heavy  accusation  against 
a  man  whom  we  esteem  as  a  godly  minister  of  Christ," 
continued  another,  leaning  forward  to  look  at  the 
petitioner.  "  Such  a  charge  we  cannot  lightly  entertain. 
Master  Obadiah  Sturges  was  inducted  into  his  cure  by 
my  lord  of  Manchester  himself,  after  full  examination 
had  of  his  credentials,  and  "- 

"  After  full  examination  ?  Was  that  verily  so  ?  Had 
your  reverences  good  cause  for  this  high  opinion  ye 
entertain  of  him  ?  " 

"  Assuredly  we  had  good  cause,"  returned  the  minister, 
with  the  look  of  anger  at  the  unseemly  interruption. 
"  We  appoint  no  man  lightly  to  the  weighty  care  of  souls. 
Young  man,  you  have  yet  to  learn  to  listen  in  silence  to 
the  elders  of  the  Church." 

"  Reverend  sir,  I  crave  your  pardon,"  answered  Roger, 
penitently.  "  I  meant  not  any  discourtesy.  Only  I 
would  fain  know — the  matter  toucheth  me  so  nearly — 
wherefore  the  man  hath  been  preferred  to  our  living." 

"And  wherefore  should  the  matter  touch  you  so 
nearly  ? "  demanded  the  prolocutor.  Wherefore 
should  you  inquire  so  earnestly  into  our  reasons  ?  Is  it 
to  gratify  some  private  revenge  that  you  desire  the 
removal  of  Master  Obadiah  ?  " 

"  Nay,  sir,"  cried  Roger,  earnestly,  "  revenge  hath  no 
part  in  me.  There  is  no  hatred  betwixt  us ;  rather  is  he 
more  fair  spoken  toward  me  than  need  is.  But  I  would 
fain  see  our  Church  flourish  in  all  godly  honesty  and 
good  report,  and  it  can  scarce  be  so  with  Master  Obadiah." 

"  And  your  reason  for  this  evil  thought  of  him  ?  " 

Roger  turned  crimson,  and  looked  on  the  ground. 
"  He  is  not  well  spoken  of  in  the  town,"  he  said. 
"  Some  will  have  it  that  he  hath  sinned  against 
morality." 

"  And  have  you  no  better  ground  for  your  charge  than 
hearsay?  Let  his  accusers  stand  forth,  and  prove  what 
they  say.  Doth  this  which  you  affirm  come  within  your 
own  knowledge  ?  *' 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER.  21 

"  Nay,  I  know  naught  myself  of  the  matter,"  said 
Roger,  and  again  he  hung  his  head  abashed.  "  I  speak 
but  that  which  is  town  talk.  And" — he  hesitated — 
"  and  some  there  be  that  say  he  is  Popishly  inclined." 

"Ay,  how  mean  you  that?"  was  the  reply.  "The 
petition  here  says  that  Master  Obadiah  is  of  unsavoury 
report  among  the  godly  by  reason  of  his  too  great 
strictness — a  strange  objection,  forsooth,  to  lodge 
against  a  man.  But  it  is  manifest  that  a  man  cannot 
be  over  strict,  and  likewise  Popishly  inclined." 

"  It  seemeth  to  me,"  said  a  third,  who  had  not  yet 
spoken,  "  that  the  charges  rest  chiefly  on  town  gossip — 
a  sorry  guide  in  so  weighty  a  matter.  Have  you  verily 
undertaken  this  journey  with  no  better  proofs  to  your 
hand  ?  " 

Roger  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and  the  colour  went 
and  came  in  his  face.  "  I  have  no  proofs,"  he  answered 
at  last,  "  none,  I  would  say,  which  I  can  advance.  I 
would  only  beseech  you,  reverend  sirs,  to  make  such 
inquiry  touching  this  man  as  shall  bring  the  truth  to 
light,  whether  he  be,  to  wit,  a  child  of  the  Lord." 

"  And  think  you,"  replied  the  prolocutor,  significantly, 
"  that  we,  who  have  the  care  of  all  the  churches  upon 
us,  have  leisure  to  enquire  concerning  the  character  of 
a  man,  when  ye,  who  live  at  his  door,  can  discover 
nothing  of  a  surety  against  him  ?  Have  a  care,  Master 
Sparowe.  They  who  bring  railing  accusations  against 
others  may  peradventure  find  themselves  accused.  You 
have  a  mother  and  brother  who,  if  report  say  true,  are 
yet  in  the  bond  of  iniquity." 

"  None  grieve  over  their  error  more  am  I,  reverend 
sir,"  replied  Roger,  sadly. 

"  The  wise  man  doth  not  grieve,  but  act,"  answered 
the  prolocutor,  and  there  was  a  murmur  of  assent  all 
round  the  table.  "  You  harbour  those  who  would  fain 
restore  the  accursed  thing  in  Church  and  State,  against 
which  the  Lord  in  these  latter  days  hath  so  abundantly 
testified.  Perchance  you  hold  with  them  yourself." 

"  Nay,  Sir,  nay  !  I  cannot  drive  them  from  me,  but  I 
think  not  as  they  do.  And  forget  not,  I  pray  you,"  he 


22  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

looked  wistfully  round  at  the  stern,  forbidding  faces, 
"  that  my  father  sealed  his  faith  at  Naseby." 

"  Ay,  was  that  so  ?  In  sooth  I  had  forgotten  it," 
replied  his  questioner.  "  It  is  well,  then,  my  son.  For 
your  father's  sake  we  will  not  doubt  your  own  con- 
formity. See  only  that  you  bring  no  further  charge 
against  this  holy  man.  Even  the  child  of  the  Lord 
may  err,  and  in  this  matter  you  are  clearly  in  fault." 

With  this  unsatisfactory  answer  Roger  was  fain  to  be 
content.  He  had  failed  in  his  business,  as  he  knew 
he  should  fail.  With  a  sigh  he  resigned  himself 
to  the  prospect  of  seeing  a  man,  to  whom  he  felt  the 
strongest  aversion,  discharging  duties  for  which  he  knew 
him  to  be  utterly  unfit.  All  these  things  were  against 
him.  He  was  but  an  unprofitable  servant,  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  rode  slowly  back  to  his  hostelry.  His 
nearest  and  dearest  were  all  arrayed  in  opposition  to 
him,  all  ranked  on  the  side  of  failure,  of  sin,  of  the 
devil.  Perhaps  he  was  verily,  as  he  sometimes  thought 
himself,  forsaken  of  God. 

Roger  Sparowe  was  a  Puritan  in  all  points  but  one. 
Strive  as  he  would,  he  could  not  attain  to  the  self- 
confidence,  the  unquestioning  belief  in  the  purity  of  his 
own  motives,  which  was  characteristic  of  the  sect  to 
which  he  belonged.  He  was  never  free  from  doubts  and 
fears,  and  when  he  saw  others  satisfied  with  themselves, 
and  with  their  actions,  he  felt  that  the  fault  lay  with 
him,  and  that  he  still  dwelt  in  outer  darkness. 

Something,  too,  in  Wentworth's  face,  when  Walter 
Sparowe  was  spoken  of,  made  Roger  vaguely  anxious 
on  his  brother's  account.  There  was  nothing  now  to 
detain  him  in  London,  a  lonely  place  enough  to  a  young 
country  squire  who  seldom  stirred  from  home.  Accord- 
ingly, on  the  following  morning  he  was  up  betimes, 
settled  his  modest  account  at  the  inn,  and  started  on 
his  homeward  journey. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  the  tide  of  fashion  in  London 
had  already  begun  to  set  westward.  Temple  Bar  was 
the  great  landmark  between  the  city  and  the  suburbs, 
From  thence  the  houses  stretched  along  the  Strand, 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER.  23 

growing  fewer,  and  the  gardens  larger,  as  they  approached 
Westminster.  In  this  quarter  lived  those  of  the  upper 
classes  whom  duty  or  pleasure  compelled  to  be  in 
London.  Not  but  what  there  were  many  splendid 
mansions,  surrounded  by  noble  gardens,  to  be  found 
within  the  City.  Still,  that  was  emphatically  the  place 
where  business  was  transacted,  and  the  merchants' 
houses  and  shops  clustered  thickly  round  St.  Paul's  and 
the  Royal  Exchange. 

As  Roger  Sparowe  took  his  way  through  the  wards 
of  the  City,  out  at  the  Bishop's  Gate,  and  along  the 
street  which  still  bears  that  name,  he  passed  through 
the  poorest  parts  of  the  town.  The  country  soon  began. 
The  houses  extended  as  far  as  Mile  End  and  Stepney, 
then  both  pretty  rustic  villages,  and  beyond  these  the 
young  traveller  saw  before  him  a  vast  extent  of  forest 
land,  stretching  away  to  the  rising  ground  of  Epping 
Forest.  To  the  left  of  the  road  lay  the  great  woodland 
of  Enfield  Chase,  a  favourite  hunting  ground  of  the 
Tudor  sovereigns.  Here  Queen  Elizabeth  had  rested 
the  night  previous  to  her  triumphal  entry  into  the 
Capital,  which  she  had  quitted  a  few  years  before  as  a 
prisoner ;  and  here  she  had  often  kept  royal  state  at  her 
crown  demesne  of  Elsynge  Hall.  So  excellent,  indeed, 
was  the  hunting,  and  so  enamoured  had  her  successor, 
King  James,  become  of  it,  that  he  had  compelled  his 
favourite,  Robert  Cecil,  in  somewhat  arbitrary  fashion, 
to  exchange  his  fine  hunting  lodge  at  Theobalds,  on  the 
borders  of  the  chase,  for  another  at  Hatfield. 

Crossing  the  river  Lea,  Roger  struck  over  a  spur  of 
the  hilly  ground,  which  was  covered  for  miles  by  the 
dense  growth  of  Epping  Forest,  and  proceeded  in  the 
direction  of  Brentwood.  At  the  pretty  little  village  of 
Epping,  he  stopped  for  a  few  moments  to  refresh  his 
horse.  Epping  was  a  fair  type  of  the  hamlets  which 
were  dotted  all  over  England.  In  the  centre  rose  a 
church  of  noble  Gothic  architecture,  built  in  the  days 
when  men  undertook  such  work  for  the  salvation  of  their 
souls,  and  made  it  the  occupation  of  a  lifetime.  The 
houses  clustered  thickly  round  it.  Set  in  the  heart  of  a 


24  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

great  woodland,  most  of  them  were  built  of  timber,  and 
thatched,  a  foot  thick,  with  straw ;  but  all  of  them  had 
high  pointed  gables,  and  some  of  the  steep  roofs  were 
tiled  with  red  brick,  which  gave  them  a  rich,  warm 
appearance.  Many  of  the  larger  houses  had  huge 
chimneys,  square  or  six-sided,  solidly  built  of  red  brick. 
These  picturesque  chimneys  served  a  double  purpose. 
Not  only  did  they  provide  an  outlet  for  the  smoke,  but 
if  all  tales  were  true,  many  of  them  contained  small 
chambers  and  hiding  places,  built  into  the  thickness  of  the 
masonry.  There  was  scarcely  a  house  in  England  which 
could  not  boast  of  some  such  internal  peculiarity  of 
structure,  where  a  man  in  distress — Cavalier,  Noncon- 
formist minister,  or  Popish  priest — could  be  concealed. 
The  disturbed  state  of  the  times  rendered  such  arrange- 
ments almost  necessary. 

Another  striking  evidence  of  the  crisis  of  civil  war 
through  which  the  country  had  passed  was  seen  in  the 
small  proportion  of  land  under  cultivation.  The  rough, 
broken  ground,  half  grass,  half  heath  and  barren  sand, 
stretched  to  the  very  walls  of  the  houses,  without  any 
intermediate  fringe  of  garden  or  field.  The  time  when 
men,  as  they  sowed  their  fields,  doubted  who  should 
reap  them,  was  passed.  The  swarms  of  Royalist  troopers 
had  been  exterminated  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  Lord 
General.  But  the  great  Civil  War  was  still  felt  in  every 
part  of  the  country.  So  many  able-bodied  men  had 
been  drawn  off,  some  of  them  never  to  return,  that 
much  land  had  fallen  out  of  cultivation,  and  at  that  time 
perhaps  not  more  than  half  the  country,  at  most,  was 
tilled.  The  new  call  to  arms  had  come  at  the  most 
inconvenient  season  of  the  agricultural  year ;  and  Roger 
Sparowe,  as  he  passed  along,  wondered  from  whence 
the  men  would  come  to  gather  the  harvest  he  saw 
ripening  under  the  golden  August  sun. 

At  Chelmsford  he  stopped  to  dine  and  rest  his  horse, 
then  pushed  on  through  the  long  summer  afternoon  to 
Colchester,  50  miles  from  London,  where  he  intended 
to  spend  the  night.  Young,  active,  and  inured  to 
Jong  distances  on  horseback,  he  might  perhaps  have 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF    THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER.  25 

accomplished  the  whole  journey  to  Ipswich  in  one  long 
day,  had  the  roads  been  good.  But  roads  in  England  had 
degenerated  sadly  from  the  days  of  the  splendid  old 
Roman  causeways.  Under  the  genial  influence  of  the 
summer  sun,  the  road  along  which  Roger  Sparowe 
picked  his  way  was  as  nearly  passable  as  it  ever  was. 
It  would  be  a  misnomer,  however,  to  say  that  the  roads 
were  made,  in  any  modern  sense  of  the  word.  For  the 
most  part  they  were  left  as  they  were.  Sometimes  they 
degenerated  into  a  mere  sheep-track,  sometimes  they 
widened  into  a  quagmire,  and  always,  in  the  best 
weather,  they  were  two  or  three  feet  deep  in  mud.  At 
certain  periods  of  the  year  the  waters  were  out,  and  the 
country  was  flooded  for  miles.  Much  of  the  land  was 
still  marshy  ground,  especially  in  the  low-lying  districts 
of  Essex  and  Cambridge,  and  inundations  were  frequent 
and  disastrous. 

In  addition  to  these  difficulties,  the  roads,  especially 
those  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  capital,  were  infested 
with  highwaymen,  who,  to  a  much  later  date,  robbed 
and  murdered  with  impunity.  Thus  a  journey  to 
London  and  back  was  not  accomplished  without  manifold 
dangers  and  hair-breadth  escapes. 

The  easiest  method  of  travelling  was  that  usually 
adopted,  namely,  on  horseback ;  and  if  a  lady  were  of 
the  party,  she  rode  pillion  behind  one  of  the  men  on  a 
large  horse,  called  a  double  horse.  One  or  two  such 
parties  did  Roger  fall  in  with  on  his  way.  Now  and 
then  he  met  a  huge  travelling  coach,  containing  eight  or 
ten  people,  and  painfully  dragged  along  by  six  horses, 
as  a  matter  of  necessity,  not  of  luxury.  These  coaches 
usually  stuck  fast  in  the  mire  every  few  miles ;  and,  in 
spite  of  his  lame  foot,  Roger  was  often  obliged  to 
dismount,  and  to  assist  in  bringing  them  through  a 
marsh,  a  bit  of  broken  ground,  or  the  bed  of  a  small  river. 

The  state  of  the  roads  being  such,  care  for  his  horse 
made  him  draw  rein  soon  after  he  had  crossed  the  river 
Colne,  from  which  the  town  of  Colchester  took  its 
name.  Colchester  still  bore  traces  of  the  severe  siege 
it  had  sustained  three  years  before,  but  it  was  beginning 


26  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

to  recover  its  usual  aspect.  Here  was  an  inn,  where 
Roger  had  occasionally  rested  on  his  journeys  to  and 
fro,  and  where  he  intended  to  lodge  for  the  night. 

Like  every  other  hostelry  he  had  passed,  the  place 
was  swarming  with  stern-faced,  buff-coated  Puritan 
soldiers,  on  their  way  to  join  the  army  in  the  North. 
Some,  after  the  manner  of  soldiers,  were  drinking, 
moderately,  for  all  excesses  were  strictly  forbidden. 
But  the  greater  number  sat  at  the  rough  inn  table,  Bible 
in  hand,  and  talked  of  predestination,  election, 
perseverance  in  grace,  eternal  reprobation,  and  other 
kindred  topics  of  absorbing  interest.  From  time  to 
time,  some  man  with  a  gift  of  utterance  took  the  word 
out  of  the  mouth  of  his  less  eloquent  brethren,  and 
discoursed  learnedly  on  the  matter  under  discussion, 
while  the  rest  listened  in  solemn  silence. 

Roger  did  not  join  the  company,  as  they  evidently 
expected  him  to  do.  Puritan  though  he  was,  he  could 
not  forget  that  he  was  also  a  gentleman,  with  a  shield  of 
many  quarterings,  and  counted  back  his  ancestry  for  at 
least  250  years.  Ke  ordered  his  supper,  therefore,  in  a 
small  inner  room,  and  thither,  as  soon  as  his  host  had 
signified  that  it  was  ready,  he  betook  himself. 

He  was  served  by  a  comely  damsel,  dressed  after  the 
usual  fashion  of  waiting  maids  in  those  days,  but 
displaying  somewhat  more  of  a  full  white  throat  and 
neck,  and  a  well  rounded  arm  than  was  necessary. 

As  she  brought  in  a  huge  jug  of  home-brewed  ale,  and 
set  it  down  before  the  traveller,  she  looked  closely  at 
him.  Her  gaze  was  rather  curious  than  impertinent, 
but  Roger  glanced  up  sharply,  feeling  that  he  was  being 
narrowly  examined.  He  saw  before  him  a  handsome 
girl,  with  bright  dark  eyes,  and  a  brilliant  white  and 
pink  skin ;  but  there  was  something  in  those  eyes  which 
made  the  young  Puritan,  the  moment  he  met  them, 
blush  and  turn  away. 

He  could  not  tell  why  this  untoward  impression  had 
been  made  upon  him.  The  girl  seemed  neither  forward 
nor  unmaidenly,  as  she  moved  about  the  room,  attending 
to  his  wants  with  less  than  usual  of  the  uncouth 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF   THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER.  27 

brusqueness  to  which  his  experience  of  inns  had 
accustomed  him.  On  one  pretext  or  another,  howeverr 
she  lingered,  till  at  last  he  told  her  sharply  that  he 
no  longer  required  her  attendance. 

Once  alone,  Roger  took  himself  to  task  for  this 
unwonted  irritation.  Why  had  the  woman's  presence 
such  strange  power  to  annoy  him  ?  He  was  certain  he 
had  never  seen  her  before,  and,  far  from  admiring  her, 
he  found  her  openly  displayed  charms  almost  repulsive. 
Doubtless  it  was  a  wile  of  the  devil,  who  had  been 
permitted  thus  to  annoy  him,  because  in  the  pride  of 
his  heart,  he  had  withdrawn  himself  from  the  company 
of  godly  soldiers  in  the  other  room. 

To  turn  his  thoughts  he  walked  to  the  window,  and 
looked  down  into  the  courtyard  below.  On  the  opposite 
side  was  a  huge  kitchen,  a  mere  barn,  with  a  mud  floor, 
roughly  roofed  in,  and  furnished  only  with  a  great  brick 
chimney  above  the  enormous  open  hearth.  The  side 
next  the  courtyard  was  not  walled  in,  but  stood  open  to 
all  comers,  and  Roger  could  plainly  see  everything  that 
went  on  in  the  room,  if  such  it  could  be  called.  It 
seemed  to  be  full  of  people.  Rough  country  folk,  drivers, 
carriers,  ostlers,  were  incessantly  passing  in  and  out- 
A  few  soldiers  lounged  idly  against  the  rude  wooden 
pillars,  blackened  with  smoke,  which  supported  the  open 
side  of  the  kitchen  :  while  two  or  three  women  moved 
to  and  fro  across  the  great  hearth,  with  its  huge 
cauldrons  and  pipkins,  superintending  the  primitive 
cooking  arrangements  of  the  inn. 

On  one  side  of  the  fire  stood  a  high  wooden  box. 
Roger  wondered  what  purpose  it  could  serve  in  such  a 
place.  Presently,  however,  through  the  coarse  talk  of 
the  men,  and  the  sharp  voices  of  the  women,  he  heard 
a  babe  crying,  and  suddenly  discovered  that  this  curious 
object  was  a  cradle.  Amid  all  the  din  and  noise,  a  little 
child  had  been  sleeping  1 

The  cry  continued.  Apparently  it  was  no  one's 
business  to  stop  it;  when,  just  as  Roger  felt  a  foolish 
impulse  to  go  himself — for  he  dearly  loved  children — he 
saw  the  serving  maid  whose  appearance  had  so  strangely 


28  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

impressed  him.  She  crossed  the  kitchen  hurriedly, 
struck  a  blow  at  a  man  who  was  staring  too  curiously 
into  the  cradle,  took  up  the  child,  and,  without  the 
smallest  reticence,  proceeded  to  satisfy  it. 

Roger  turned  away  with  a  sense  of  relief.  After  all, 
this  girl  was  no  common  serving  wench,  but  some 
respectable  married  woman,  called  in,  probably,  to  help 
in  an  emergency.  Or  possibly  mine  host's  own  daughter, 
on  a  visit  to  her  father,  who  had  consented  to  wait  on 
the  guests  during  the  pressure  of  work  caused  by  the 
sudden  influx  of  soldiers. 

The  next  morning  Roger  was  up  with  the  sun,  and 
ready  to  start,  hoping  to  reach  Ipswich  before  noon. 
Early  as  he  was,  however,  the  girl  had  forestalled  him, 
and  this  time  she  seemed  determined  to  have  speech  of 
him.  As  she  set  down  his  breakfast,  consisting  of  a 
huge  venison  pasty,  and  home-brewed  ale — breakfasts  in 
those  days  were  as  substantial  as  a  modern  dinner — she 
again  looked  at  him,  and  said,  with  the  same  curious 
expression : — 

44  I  know  your  honour's  face  well." 

Roger  started.  "  Thou  knowest  me  ?  "  he  asked,  trying 
to  speak  in  an  unconcerned  voice.  "  Where  hast  thou 
seen  me  ?  I  come  not  often  hither,  and  I  cannot  call  to 
mind  that  thou  hast  served  me  before." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  know  you,  Master  Sparowe,"  she 
answered,  more  boldly ;  "  and  your  worship's  brother, 
Master  Walter,  I  have  waited  on  many  a  time.  That 
was  in  the  old  days;  now,  forsooth,  I  serve  him  no 
longer,"  she  added,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Hath  my  brother  been  here  ?  "  asked  Roger,  vaguely 
alarmed  at  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke.  "  He  is  oft 
from  home,  and  it  may  be  he  hath  journeyed  as  far  as 
this.  Thou  knowest  us  both,  then,  even  to  our  names  ?  " 

44  Know  you  ! "  echoed  the  girl,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 
"  Ay,  to  your  names  and  your  faces,  and  all  else  con- 
cerning you.  I  am  not  like  to  forget  a  name  which 
should  have  been  mine  own." 

41  Thine  !  thou  a  Sparowe  !  "  repeated  Roger,  with  a 
puzzled  expression.  <4  How  could  that  be  ?  " 


AT   THE    SIGN    OF    THE    BULL,    COLCHESTER.  29 

The  woman  dropped  her  eyes  before  his  frank  look  of 
inquiry.  "  You  may  know  how  it  could  be."  she 
answered,  with  less  confidence.  "  I  speak  only  of  that 
which  was  due  to  me." 

"  But  thou  art  not  of  our  lineage,"  said  Roger. 
"  How  couldst  thou  bear  the  name  ?  " 

"  If  all  had  their  rights,"  she  muttered,  "  I  were  as- 
good  as  any  of  you.  But  foul  dishonour  hath  been  done 
me — the  name  hath  been  wrongfully  withheld  " 

Roger  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  blazing  with  pride 
and  anger.  "  Woman  !  "  he  exclaimed,  fiercely,  "  have 
a  care  what  words  you  say.  Your  pardon  !  "  for  he  had 
clapt  his  hand  on  his  sword ;  "  but  I  would  have  you 
know  that  the  name  of  our  honourable  house  is  not  to 
be  lightly  spoken." 

"An  honourable  house,  forsooth,"  answered  the 
woman,  bitterly,  "and  honourable  are  his  deeds.  Is  it 
an  honourable  thing,  think  you,  to  lure  a  girl  from  her 
home  with  promise  of  marriage  ?  Only  a  poor  serving 
maid  !  A  high  favour  to  her  if  a  young  gallant  do  but 
look  at  her.  But  serving  maids  have  hearts,  mark  you, 
as  well  as  other  folk." 

"  Who  ?  who  hath  done  this  ?  "  cried  Roger.  "  Name 
him,  that  I  may  confront  him  with  his  evil  deeds.  This 
sword  shall  be  as  the  sword  of  the  Lord  to  avenge  thee, 
if  thy  words  are  true." 

The  girl  shrank  back ;  she  seemed  almost  afraid  for 
a  moment  of  the  spirit  she  had  aroused.  "  Who  should 
it  be  but  your  honour's  own  brother  ?  "  she  said,  more 
quietly.  "  Knew  you  verily  naught  thereof  ?  But  hold, 
good  sir,  I  need  no  avenging,  no  drawing  of  swords.  I 
spoke  but  to  show  you  how  matters  should  stand 
between  us,  if  right  were  done  me." 

"  My  brother !  "  repeated  Roger,  his  face  crimson  with 
horror.  "  Tis  impossible !  Woman,  thou  art  beside 
thyself;  trouble  hath  driven  thee  mad.  Walter  is  yet  a 
child,  who  knoweth  not  his  right  hand  from  his  left.  If 
thou  must  needs  accuse,  spare  one  at  least  who  is  too 
young  to  be  guilty." 

"Your  brother  it  is,  and  none  other,"  she  replied. 


30  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

stubbornly.  "  Ay,  glare  at  me  as  you  will,  you  cannot 
move  me  from  my  words.  I  know  you  well,  Master 
Sparowe,  and  that  dainty  madam,  your  mother. 
Perchance,  an  it  were  not  for  fear  of  hurting  her, 
Walter  had  made  a  lady  of  me." 

"  Forbear  !  "  cried  Roger,  livid  with  passion.  "  Take 
not  my  mother's  name  within  thy  polluted  lips." 

"  Polluted,  quotha  !  "  she  answered,  bitterly,  "  and 
who  hath  polluted  them  ?  Now  mark  me  well,  Master 
Roger  Sparowe.  For  all  your  smooth  ways,  and  canting 
Puritanical  tongue,  you  are  proud  as  Walter  himself. 
Proud  are  ye  all,  ye  Sparowes.  It  hath  made  me  mad 
to  think  how  near,  but  for  your  pride,  I  might  have 
been  to  you.  But  pride  goeth  before  destruction,  and 
an  haughty  spirit  before  a  fall." 

She  was  at  the  door  before  Roger,  stupefied  with 
horror  and  astonishment,  could  utter  a  word.  There 
she  paused  a  moment,  glanced  irresolutely  at  him,  and 
coming  swiftly  back,  whispered  :  "  But  no  violence,  I 
charge  you,  no  violence  !  Harm  him  not.  He  is  your 
brother,  and  but  a  lad.  The  wrong  is  done  and  naught 
will  mend  it." 

"  I  will  sift  the  mystery,"  said  Roger.  "  Before  the 
sun  sets  this  day,  I  will  know  whether  thy  words  are 
true.  And,  if  it  be  so,  God  do  so  to  me,  and  more  also, 
if  I  see  not  justice  done." 


31 


CHAPTER    III. 

MOTE    END. 


ABOUT  six  miles  out  of  the  ancient  town  of  Ipswich, 
near  the  great  high  road  that  ran  to  London,  stood  a 
country  house.  It  was  built  only  on  two  stories,  and 
in  so  queer  and  rambling  a  fashion,  that  it  seemed  to 
cover  even  more  ground  than  it  really  did,  though  the 
buildings  occupied  nearly  half  an  acre.  Here,  too,  was 
the  bareness  which  characterized  the  whole  country. 
Right  up  to  the  outer  walls  of  the  mansion  stretched 
the  bleak,  open  ground,  dotted  over  here  and  there  with 
trees,  ,but  with  never  a  road,  and  scarcely  even  so 
much  as  a  hedge  to  break  the  monotony.  A  long  reach 
of  dead  wall  about  ten  feet  high  enclosed  the  house, 
stabling,  outbuildings,  and  gardens,  and  all  on  the  outer 
side  was  rough  grass  land. 

The  house  was  buik,  like  many  others,  in  the  form  of 
a  quadrangle,  with  two  projecting  wings.  The  main 
entrance  was  defended  by  a  strong  iron  grating,  like  a 
portcullis,  behind  which  was  a  stout  wooden  door,  bound 
and  clamped  with  iron,  set  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall. 
From  the  main  block  the  stables  ran  out  in  a  long 
straggling  line  in  the  rear,  and  were  approached  by  a 
huge  gateway,  built  into  the  outer  wall,  and  closed  by 
oaken  doors  half-a-foot  thick.  One  wing  faced  the 
entrance,  running  at  a  short  distance  from  the  wall.  On 
this  side  the  windows  were  few  and  small,  looking  almost 
like  loopholes.  Such  grace  and  beauty  as  the  solid 
castellated  mansion  possessed  lay  all  in  the  other  wing, 
which  was  on  the  side  of  the  house  furthest  from 
the  stables  and  entrance.  Here  were  the  rooms  of  the 
ladies  of  the  house,  and  here,  surrounded  by  high  walls, 
was  a  fair  flower  garden.  It  was  laid  out  stiffly,  in  the 
style  of  the  time,  but  abounded  in  old-fashioned,  sweet- 
scented  flowers. 


32  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Seen  from  the  outside,  this  house  of  grim  and  for- 
bidding aspect  looked  as  if  it  were  prepared  to  abkle  a 
siege  of  several  months'  duration.  For  that  very  reason, 
perhaps,  its  defensive  capabilities  had  never  been  put  to 
the  test  throughout  the  war.  In  the  bottom  of  their 
hearts,  this  was  a  sore  chagrin  to  the  large  retinue  of 
grooms  and  serving  men,  without  whom  no  household 
of  a  man  of  wealth  was  complete.  They  had  all  been 
drilled  and  trained  to  arms  with  the  most  rigid  precision. 
Each  man  knew  the  post  he  was  to  take  up  in  case 
the  house  was  attacked  ;  and  now  the  war  had  dwindled 
into  a  mere  duel,  certain  to  be  soon  ended,  between  the 
Lord  General  and  young  Charles  Stuart,  and  they  had 
never  been  called  on  so  much  as  to  convoy  a  waggon 
load  of  provisions. 

All  these  martial  preparations,  sufficient  to  have 
defended  a  town,  were  intended  to  serve  for  the  protec- 
tion of  an  old  man  and  his  two  daughters.  Master 
Nehemiah  Burroughs,  the  owner  of  this  well-garrisoned 
house,  was  one  of  the  leading  burgesses  of  the  neigh- 
bouring town.  He  had  been  in  turn  chamberlain, 
portman  (an  office  which  he  held  for  life),  and  bailiff, 
and  had  only  declined  the  honour  of  representing  Ipswich 
in  the  present  Parliament,  because  he  found  it  impossible 
to  delegate  his  important  duties  at  home  to  any  sub- 
stitute. It  was  in  a  happy  hour  that  he  refused.  The 
Parliament  of  1640,  known  as  the  Long  Parliament, 
had  now  been  sitting  without  intermission  for  1 1  years, 
and  had  he  been  a  member  of  it,  he  would  have  had 
small  joy  of  his  home  and  of  his  children. 

Still  he  was  forced  to  be  often  absent.  Puritanism 
had  taken  a  stronger  hold  of  the  Eastern  Counties  than 
of  any  other  part  of  England.  Every  man  of  pious 
mind  was  required  to  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  and  to 
keep  the  two-headed  hydra,  in  the  shape  of  Popery  and 
Prelacy,  at  bay.  Those  who  stayed  at  home  were  to 
the  full  as  serviceable  to  the  good  cause  as  those  who 
took  sword  and  pike,  and  proved  their  valour  at  Marston 
Moor  and  Naseby.  The  men  in  these  Eastern  Counties 
were  mostly  of  stern  Puritanical  stuff,  "godly"  men 


MOTE    END.  33 

according  to  the  phraseology  of  the  time.  It  was  from 
them  that  Cromwell  drew  the  bulk  of  those  redoubtable 
Ironsides  who  truly,  as  he  said,  were  "  never  beaten 
at  all." 

Early  in  the  struggle  the  seven  Eastern  Counties  had 
formed  themselves  into  an  association  for  purposes  of 
defence.  It  was  probably  owing  to  the  firm  front 
presented  by  this  association,  that  the  tide  of  war  had 
never  touched  the  East  of  England  at  all,  but  had  been 
mainly  confined  to  the  West  and  centre.  Master 
Burroughs  had  been  appointed  member  of  the  committee 
for  the  county  of  Suffolk.  The  office  caused  him 
almost  as  many  journeys,  and  goings  to  and  fro,  as  if  he 
had  taken  part  in  the  furious  war  with  mouth  and  pen, 
the  disputings,  discussions,  orderings  and  counter- 
orderings,  which  had  been  carried  on  for  years  at 
Westminster.  What  with  drilling  the  soldiers,  extracting 
their  pay — always  with  much  difficulty — from  the 
Parliament  or  the  local  authorities,  and  crushing  all 
symptoms  of  disaffection,  Master  Burroughs  had  a  busy 
time  of  it. 

During  these  absences  his  place  was  ably  filled  by  his 
daughter,  Mistress  Kezia.  The  rigid  Puritan  household 
flourished  under  her  care.  She  conducted  with  much 
unction  the  morning  and  evening  exercise ;  marshalled 
the  household  to  the  periodical  fast,  the  last  Wednesday 
in  the  month,  strictly  enjoined  by  Parliament,  and  now  of 
ten  years'  standing ;  repressed  the  least  attempt  at  a  jest 
or  light  word  in  the  youngest  stable  boy ;  and  maintained 
the  whole  family  on  the  principle  of  severe  abstinence 
from  everything  that  was  pleasant  or  agreeable.  Master 
Nehemiah  himself,  albeit  there  was  no  more  orthodox 
Puritan  in  all  the  country  side,  found  it  needful  at  times 
to  temper  her  zeal.  Kezia  was  especially  an  adept  in 
the  art  of  wielding  texts  from  the  Bible,  which  seemed, 
under  her  skilful  manipulation,  literally  to  become  a 
two-edged  sword ;  while  her  younger  sister  Alice  was 
like  to  weep  sometimes  for  sheer  heart  hunger,  so  little 
spiritual  sustenance  did  she  find  in  the  stern  theology  of 
father  and  sister. 


34  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Yet  Alice,  too,  was  religious  to  the  heart's  core. 
Heaven  and  hell  were  very  real,  and  almost  equally 
appalling,  to  her.  There  were  times  when  she  looked  at 
the  world  about  her,  and  wondered  why  it  was  so  fair, 
since,  as  she  was  taught  to  believe,  it  was  the  City  of 
Destruction,  from  which  every  Christian  was  bound  to 
flee.  She  wearied  of  the  continual  talk  of  election  and 
final  perseverance,  and  the  condemnation  of  the  whole 
world,  except  the  Presbyterians,  to  eternal  perdition. 
It  almost  seemed  as  if  there  were  something  wanting  in 
this  vigorous  Puritan  belief,  so  little  did  it  meet  her 
spiritual  needs.  Of  late,  since  the  visits  of  a  grave 
young  gentleman,  with  wistful  dark  eyes,  Alice  had 
begun  to  doubt  whether  the  one  thing  lacking,  in  her 
life  as  in  her  religion,  were  not — love. 

Roger  Sparowe,  who  had  ridden  at  full  speed  from 
Colchester,  drew  rein  at  last,  as  he  approached  Mote 
End.  Dropping  the  bridle  on  the  horse's  neck,  he 
debated  with  himself,  for  the  space  of  full  five  minutes, 
whether  he  should  ride  across  to  the  entrance,  ring  at 
the  great  bell,  and  gain  admittance  to  the  closely 
guarded  house.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  all  the 
movements  of  the  family.  He  knew  that  he  would  find 
Master  Nehemiah  at  home,  remembering  suddenly  some 
talk  of  a  sermon  to  be  preached  in  the  neighbourhood, 
which  would  be  over  by  this  time. 

Further,  inhospitable  as  was  the  outward  aspect  of 
the  house,  Roger  felt  he  was  sure  of  a  welcome,  though 
not  perhaps  so  cordial  as  usual.  Like  many  of  his 
neighbours,  Master  Burroughs  disapproved  of  Roger's 
journey  to  town,  and  held  that  the  Reverend  Obadiah 
Sturges  had  been  wrongfully  suspected.  That  he  would 
win  no  sympathy  from  him  in  the  failure  of  his  mission 
did  not  weigh  so  much  with  Roger,  as  the  fear  lest 
Mistress  Kezia  should  act  as  she  had  done  at  his  last 
visit,  monopolize  the  guest,  despatch  her  younger  sister 
elsewhere,  and  prevent  him  from  having  a  moment's 
speech  with  her. 

Then,  too,  that  scene  in  the  inn  parlour  at  Colchester 
rankled  in  his  mind.  Roger  did  not  believe  the  woman's 


MOTE    END.  35 

words,  but  he  felt  that  until  he  could  see  his  brother, 
and  hear  the  refutation  of  them  from  his  own  lips,  a 
kind  of  stain  rested  upon  the  honour  of  his  house. 
And  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  such  exquisite  purity 
about  Alice  Burroughs  that  Roger,  in  his  fantastic 
integrity,  shrank  from  seeing  her,  until  he  could  do  so 
with  an  absolutely  clear  conscience. 

Full  of  these  thoughts,  Roger  caught  up  the  rein 
with  a  jerk,  as  his  tired  horse,  which  was  used  to  the 
creature  comforts  of  Moat  End,  made  a  feint  of  drawing 
up  to  the  stable  gate.  He  had  not  gone  far,  however, 
before  he  was  suddenly  hailed  from  behind.  Hailed ! 
nay,  that  was  altogether  the  wrong  word.  It  was  no 
shout,  but  rather  the  grave  and  authoritative  utterance 
of  his  own  name,  which  reached  Roger's  ears,  and  made 
him  turn  instantly,  with  a  beating  heart,  knowing  very 
well  who  had  accosted  him. 

The  owner  of  Mote  End,  Master  Burroughs  himself, 
was  in  the  act  of  riding  up  to  the  iron  gateway.  He 
was  a  short,  stout  man,  with  a  sallow  skin,  thin  lips, 
and  a  broad  nose  with  an  unpleasant  looking  lump  in 
the  middle  of  it.  He  was  dressed  in  a  long  black  coat, 
with  deep,  pointed  collar  and  cuffs,  all  of  spotless,  stiff 
starched  linen,  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  small  velvet 
skull  cap.  He  road  an  enormous  double  horse,  and 
behind  him,  on  a  pillon,  was  a  lady.  For  a  moment 
Roger's  heart  beat  quickly,  but  as  she  sprang  down,  and 
displayed  a  small  neat  figure,  almost  lost  in  the  folds 
of  her  heavy  riding  cloak,  he  sighed,  and  leant  over  his 
horse's  neck,  awaiting  an  invitation  to  enter. 

"The  Lord  be  with  you,  my  son,"  said  Master 
Burroughs,  in  a  deep,  unctuous  voice,  as  soon  as  he  had 
slowly  accomplished  the  business  of  dismounting. 
"  Whither  away  in  such  haste  ?  Have  you  never  a  word 
for  old  friends,  but  must  needs  pass  their  very  door. 
Come  in,  man,  come  in,  and  refresh  yourself  this  warm 
morning  with  a  draught  of  fresh  ale."  And  stepping  to 
Roger's  side,  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm. 

Roger  winced  at  the  heavy  touch.  "  I  am  in  haste, 
honoured  sir,"  he  replied,  as  he  dismounted,  half 


36  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

reluctant,  half  eager  to  go  in.  "  Needs  must  be  that  I 
reach  home  at  noon ;  my  mother  hath  not  seen  me 
these  ten  days." 

"  Noon,  say  you  ?  why  it  is  but  ten  of  the  clock. 
You  have  been  up  betimes,  friend,  and  your  horse  is 
weary,  an  you  are  not.  Whence  come  you  ?  " 

But  just  as  Roger  was  beginning  to  broach  an 
unpleasant  subject,  Mistress  Kezia  broke  in,  for  once, 
with  a  welcome  interruption. 

"  Such  a  godly  discourse  as  we  have  sat  under  this 
morning  1 "  she  said,  in  a  high  shrill  voice  :  "  the  Lord 
grant  us  to  profit  thereby.  The  text  was  2  Cor.  vi.  7, 
and  the  worshipful  Master  Hold-fast-the-Truth  dwelt 
much  on  the  need  of  separating  ourselves  from  the 
unclean  thing.  'Twas  a  grief  to  me  that  you  were  not 
there,  Master  Sparowe.  Perchance  the  Lord  had 
blessed  the  word  to  your  spiritual  benefit,  and  caused 
you  to  cast  in  your  lot  more  fully  with  His  people." 

"  I  walk  according  to  my  light,  Mistress  Kezia,"  said 
Roger,  humbly.  "  The  Lord  knoweth  them  that  are  His. 
If  my  heart  be  right  in  His  sight  I  am  content." 

" '  By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them,' "  quoted 
Kezia.  "  And  St.  Paul  saith  :  '  Can  two  walk  together 
except  they  be  agreed  ? '  The  Lord  hath  often  laid  it 
upon  my  soul  to  tell  you,  that  your  Christian  walk  and 
conversation  are  hindered,  and  much  offence  given  to 
the  godly,  because  you  suffer  them  in  your  house  that 
live  not  according  to  the  Word." 

Had  Kezia  not  been  Alice's  sister,  Roger  would  have 
retorted  that  the  Lord  laid  upon  her  soul  to  speak  of 
a  great  many  things  with  which  she  had  no  concern. 
But  her  influence  over  Master  Burroughs  was  so  great, 
that  the  young  man  felt  the  necessity  of  conciliating  her. 

They  were  now  walking  across  the  quadrangle  in  front 
of  the  house.  Master  Burroughs  was  behind  them, 
listening  to  his  steward's  report.  Roger,  who  always 
strove  to  be  deferential  and  courteous  with  father  and 
daughter,  to-day  could  not  resist  glancing  furtively 
round  him,  to  see  if  Mistress  Alice  were  nowhere  in 
sight.  But  not  a  glimpse  of  her  could  he  obtain. 


MOTE   END.  37 

Probably  she  was  in  her  flower  garden,  or  in  the  still- 
room  or  kitchen,  and  Roger,  feeling  it  incumbent  on  him 
to  speak,  turned  on  Kezia. 

"  Those  that  I  suffer  in  my  house,  Mistress  Kezia,"  he 
said,  "are  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  Is  it  my  mother 
that  you  would  have  me  turn  adrift  ?  'Twould  break  her 
heart  and  mine.  And  whither,  pray  you,  should  I 
send  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  I  know  not,"  returned  Kezia,  easily. 
"  Neither  meant  I  to  testify  thus  straitly  against  her. 
It  needs  not  that  she  should  leave  you.  Lies  it  not  in 
your  power  to  turn  her  from  her  evil  ways,  with  reading 
of  the  scripture  and  prayer  ?  " 

"  Ay,  there  it  is,"  chimed  in  Master  Burroughs,  who 
had  now  joined  them,  and  took  up  his  daughter's  words. 
"  Neglect  not  the  gift  that  is  in  you  to  edification,  my 
son.  An  I  knew  not  that  you  are  verily  one  of  the 
Lord's  children,  I  should  account  you  a  Malignant 
yourself,  for  harbouring  two  such  rank  Prelatists  as 
Mistress  Sparowe  and  Walter.  Nay,  if  report  speak 
true,  thy  brother  is  even  more  than  a  Prelatist  and  a 
Malignant." 

Walter  again  !  Was  Roger  never  to  hear  the  last  of 
his  scapegrace  younger  brother  ? 

"  I  pray  you,  sir,  speak  no  more  of  it,"  he  cried, 
crimson  with  pain  and  perplexity.  "  My  brother  will 
doubtless  not  remain  long  with  me.  He  passeth  his 
time  in  hunting  and  drinking,  and  of  his  own  will  he 
cannot  chose  but  leave  us,  when  liberty  in  such  things 
is  denied  him.  But  my  mother — she  hath  lived  in  the 
house  all  her  life.  How  can  I  send  her  away  ?  'Twould 
be  to  her  death." 

"  And  her  remaining  is  death  to  your  soul,  my  son. 
You  are  yet  enslaved  by  the  motions  of  the  flesh.  Hear 
now  a  word  I  have  for  thee  from  the  Lord.  '  Love  not 
the  world,  neither  the  things  of  the  world.'  " 

"  'If  any  man  love  the  world,'" — Kezia  completed  the 
text,  afraid  lest  her  father  should  miss  a  tittle  of  the 
application, — "'The  love  of  the  Father  is  not  in  him.' 
Good  Master  Sparowe,"  she  continued,  blandly,  "you 


38  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

are  blinded  by  the  carnal  love  of  your  mother,  and  see 
not  the  wrong  you  do  unto  your  heavenly  Father. 
Bethink  you,  ere  it  be  too  late,  and  flee  from  the  wrath 
to  come. 

Neither  Kezia  nor  Master  Burroughs  meant  any 
impertinence  by  these  words.  Their  feelings  towards 
Roger  were  merely  those  of  sincere,  if  somewhat  out- 
spoken friendship.  It  seemed  to  them  that  he  was 
wilfully  courting  destruction,  and  they  held  themselves 
bound  to  speak. 

Fortunately  at  this  moment  the  painful  conversation 
was  interrupted.  They  had  now  entered  the  dining  hall, 
a  long  room,  which  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  house. 
The  lofty  roof  was  closed  with  heavy  oaken  rafters,  the 
floor  uncarpeted,  and  the  walls  were  hung  with  tapestry. 
Here  all  the  maids  and  serving  men  were  drawn  up  in 
two  rows,  waiting  for  the  devotional  service  which 
always  began  the  day.  It  was  not  usual  to  take  this 
religious  exercise,  as  it  was  called,  so  late  in  the 
forenoon.  But  Master  Burroughs  and  Mistress  Kezia. 
had  ridden  off  early  that  morning  to  a  village  at  some 
distance,  to  hear  a  noted  preacher.  The  household, 
therefore,  had  been  bidden  to  assemble  on  their  return, 
summoned  by  the  great  bell  of  the  house,  which  had 
been  clanging  vigorously  for  some  minutes. 

Everyone  was  ranked  in  their  places,  according  to  age 
and  degree,  and  Mistress  Kezia  was  scanning  the  well- 
ordered  rows,  to  assure  herself  that  neither  man  nor 
maid  was  missing,  when  a  side  door  opened,  and  a  young 
girl  came  in.  She  was  tall  and  slender,  with  hair  brown 
in  the  shade,  golden  as  it  caught  a  ray  of  sunlight 
though  a  window.  Her  features  bore  a  family  likeness 
to  Kezia's,  but  were  cast  in  a  larger  and  softer  mould, 
and  her  forehead  was  broad  and  smooth.  Her  mouth 
belied  the  grave  expression  of  the  rest  of  her  face.  It 
was  not  a  Puritan  mouth  at  all.  The  lips  were  full  and 
rich,  the  upper  lip  delicately  arched  "  like  Cupid's  bow," 
as  someone  had  once  unluckily  whispered  in  Kezia's 
hearing.  Whereupon  that  godly  maiden  had  been 
moved  to  such  a  pitch  of  righteous  indignation,  that  she 


MOTE    END.  39 

thenceforth  regarded  her  sister  almost  in  a  semi-pagan 
light. 

Since  then  Alice  had  often  been  chidden  for  her 
mouth,  and  for  the  foolish  habit  it  had  of  smiling  at  all 
the  world.  Sometimes,  when  she  wished  to  be 
especially  impressive,  Kezia  would  assure  Alice  that  her 
mouth  alone  was  a  sign  of  the  evil  within.  Then  the 
lips  would  quiver,  and  the  corners  of  the  offending 
mouth  would  turn  down  in  real  earnest,  and  Alice  would 
begin  to  cry.  Whereupon  Master  Burroughs,  who,  stern 
as  he  was,  had  a  lurking  fondness  for  his  tender  younger 
daughter,  would  bid  Kezia  desist,  and  kiss  the  poor 
mouth  back  into  a  smile. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  serious  gravity  of  Alice's 
face  to-day,  as  she  took  her  seat.  Her  lips  trembled  a 
little  as  she  passed  Roger,  but  she  did  not  raise  her 
head ;  while  he,  for  his  part,  dared  not  even  look  at  her. 
Only,  there  came  a  sparkle  into  his  eyes,  which  were 
decorously  fixed  on  Master  Burroughs,  and  a  smile 
flitted  across  his  face. 

The  service  concluded  with  the  solemn  salutation  : 
"  The  Lord  be  with  you,"  addressed  to  each  member  of 
the  family  in  turn,  and,  this  simple  ceremony  over, 
Roger  came  eagerly  across  the  room. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Mistress  Alice,"  he  said.  "  You 
thought  not,  doubtless,  to  see  me  here." 

"  We  are  right  glad  to  see  you  at  any  time,  Master 
Sparowe,"  she  answered,  demurely.  "  My  father  maketh 
you  always  heartily  welcome." 

"  Yea,  a  better  friend  can  no  man  desire.   And  you  ?  " 

"  My  father's  friends  are  mine,"  she  replied,  her  eyes 
still  on  the  ground.  "  It  becomes  not  a  daughter  to  have 
any  others.  And  tell  me  now,  sir,  how  you  have  fared." 

"  Well  and  ill,"  answered  Roger.  "  The  Assembly  of 
Divines  hath  refused  my  petition,  and  will  not  that 
Master  Sturges  be  removed,  whereat  your  father  and 
my  mother,  strangely  enough,  will  both  rejoice.  'Twas 
meet,  doubtless,  that  ill  success  should  befall  me,  but  I 
grieve  that  the  man  remains.  The  Lord  overrule  all  to 
His  glory! " 


40  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Alice  looked  at  Roger  Sparowe  a  moment  in  perplexity. 

11  Grave  cause  must  you  have,  I  trow,  to  seek  his 
dismissal.  My  father  saith  that  you  wrong  this  holy 
man,  Master  Sparowe.  Is  it  so  ?  " 

"  No,  Mistress  Alice,  I  do  not  wrong  him,"  answered 
Roger,  sighing.  "  An  1  could  tell  all  I  know " — he 
glanced  hurriedly  round  him — "  peradventure  I  should 
be  blamed  for  overmuch  mildness." 

Alice  flushed  scarlet.  "  Oh,  sir,  I  meant  not  to 
rebuke  you ;  I  pray  you,  mistake  me  not,"  she  replied, 
hastily.  "  I  know  that  these  be  times  when  a  man  must 
walk  according  to  his  own  conscience,  not  another's. 
If  but  the  inward  light  be  pure,  and  the  guidance  clear  " — 

"  Alas,  my  light  is  never  pure  I "  interrupted  Roger, 
Then  seeing  her  look  of  astonishment  he  added :  "  Sweet 
mistress,  an  I  had  but  guidance  .  .  .  this  guidance 
whereof  you  speak,"  .  .  . 

"  'Twas  an  inward  guidance  I  meant,"  said  Alicei 
confused  by  his  earnest  look. 

"  Ay,  inward,  but  sometimes  vouchsafed  to  us  by 
earthly  means.  But  as  touching  this  matter  of  Master 
Sturges,  some  day  it  may  be  that  I  can  speak  plainly  to 
you  thereof.  Till  then,  I  pray  you,  trust  me." 

Alice  did  not  answer,  but  she  gave  Roger  a  look  which 
made  his  heart  leap.  At  this  moment  Kezia  struck  in. 
She  had  already  been  meditating  an  interruption  of  the 
talk  which,  with  the  hesitation,  and  frequent  changes  of 
colour,  looked  far  less  innocent  than  it  really  was. 

"Alice,"  quoth  she,  "hast  finished  the  work  in  the 
buttery  ?  " 

"Yea,  sister,  'tis  done,"  answered  Alice. 

"All  of  it?  "  questioned  Kezia.  "  Hast  given  orders 
for  the  killing  of  those  pigs  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  left  that  to  thee,"  replied  her  sister,  with  a 
little  shudder. 

"  Ay,  I  thought  thou  wouldest  neglect  it.  I  pray  you, 
Master  Sparowe,"  she  said,  turning  to  Roger,  "  suffer 
my  sister  to  go.  I  being  from  home,  these  household 
matters  were  left  in  her  charge,  and  she  hath  over- 


MOTE    END.  41 

looked  them.  We  shall  have  no  pork  at  Michaelmas, 
an  the  pigs  be  not  killed  to-day." 

"  I,  too,  must  go,  Mistress  Kezia,"  said  Roger.  "  I 
have  an  hour's  riding  before  me,  and  the  sun  is  already 
high.  Fray  you,  bid  them  bring  my  horse." 

Roger  would  not  have  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  start, 
had  not  Alice  already  disappeared.  He  did  not  refuse  a 
tankard  of  home-brewed  ale,  and  having  quaffed  it,  he 
bade  farewell  to  father  and  daughter,  sprang  into  the 
saddle,  and  rode  off. 

Matters  went  always  thus  at  Mote  End,  Roger  ruefully 
said  to  himself,  as  he  put  his  horse  to  a  brisk  trot. 
Interminable  controversies  with  Master  Burroughs  and 
Kezia,  discussions  of  texts,  lasting  sometimes  for  hours, 
the  distasteful  topic  of  his  weak  compliance  with  his 
mother's  schismatical  ways  continually  thrust  upon  him  ; 
— and  as  a  reward,  half  a  dozen  words  hastily  snatched 
with  Alice,  and  one  soft  look  from  her  eyes.  Weeks 
would  pass,  perhaps,  before  he  had  the  chance  of 
another.  Such  was  the  history  of  Roger's  visits  to 
Mote  End.  This  had  been  his  life  for  many  months 
past,  yet  on  food  so  poor  he  had  contrived  to  nourish 
hope  and  love. 


42 


CHAPTER    IV. 

HOME    COMING. 


Two  hundred  years  ago  the  river  Orwell  did  not  run 
through,  but  at  the  foot  of  the  good  town  of  Ipswich. 
The  original  site  of  the  town  was  on  a  rising  ground  to 
the  north-east,  from  whence  an  almost  unbroken  line  of 
churches  and  houses  stretched  to  the  river. 

Like  most  towns  of  that  day,  Ipswich  boasted  of  a 
goodly  number  of  noble  buildings.  With  a  population 
which,  in  our  time,  would  reduce  it  to  the  rank  of  a 
village,  it  was  nevertheless  filled,  not  only  with  fine 
churches,  but  with  splendid  private  mansions.  People 
did  not  go  to  London  more  than  once  or  twice  in  a 
lifetime.  Noblemen  and  gentlemen  spent  their  lives  and 
their  incomes  on  their  own  estates,  and  among  their  own 
people,  and  had  their  palaces  in  the  county  town. 
Hence  the  number  of  beautiful  houses  in  Ipswich  and 
other  old  English  towns,  now  often  degraded  into  shops 
and  taverns,  but  which  were  in  those  days  the  ancestral 
homes  of  the  upper  classes. 

At  just  such  a  house,  standing  opposite  one  church, 
with  another  immediately  in  the  rear,  did  Roger  at  last 
alight.  It  was  a  fine  house  about  a  hundred  years 
old,  distinguished  even  then  for  the  splendour  of  its 
architecture.  The  walls  were  of  brick,  and  covered  with 
white  plaster,  a  style  much  in  vogue.  It  was  called 
"pargetting"  or  "  pargettry  "  work.  In  this  house  the 
plaster  was  moulded  into  elaborate  figures  of  fat 
cherubs  and  giants,  fiends  and  pigmies,  and  other 
monstrosities  of  the  Renaissance  period.  Timber  was 
scarce  in  the  country,  and  wood  entered  very  little  into 
the  composition  of  the  houses.  Here  it  was  only  employed 
to  outline  with  quaint  carving  the  picturesque  gables 
which  fronted  the  street.  There  were  nine  gables  in  all, 
which  some  profane  wit,  in  earlier  days,  when  a  chance 


HOME    COMING.  43 

allusion  to  heathen  mythology  was  still  permitted,  had 
likened  to  the  nine  Muses.  Whoever  thus  personified 
them  was  a  sharp-sighted  man  as  well  as  a  mirthful 
talker,  for  the  ninth  gable  was  hidden  away  at  the  back, 
and  crowded  almost  out  of  sight  by  the  graceful  curves 
and  angles  of  the  building. 

Placed  in  the  heart  of  a  thriving  town,  there  was  no 
need  to  fortify  this  house,  like  the  mansion  at  Mote  End, 
and  indeed  the  hospitable  doors,  in  the  summer  time, 
stood  open  all  day  long.  As  Roger  rode  up  he  had  to 
thread  his  way  carefully  between  booths  and  carts,  huge 
baskets  of  screaming  cocks  and  hens  and  live  fish,  and 
low  tables  on  trestles,  on  which,  and  on  the  ground, 
all  manner  of  dairy  produce,  butter,  cheese,  and  eggs, 
were  displayed.  For  in  this  space,  opposite  the  house, 
and  filling  all  the  ground  between  it  and  the  church,  was 
the  town  market;  and  here,  almost  every  day  in  the 
week,  a  rustic  fair  was  held. 

At  the  door  of  the  house,  watching  one  of  her  maids, 
who  was  bargaining  with  a  country  woman  at  a  little 
distance,  stood  a  graceful  dame,  hardly  yet  old,  though 
her  beautiful  hair  was  streaked  with  grey.  It  was  not 
arranged  in  ringlets  according  to  the  prevailing  fashion, 
but  carefully  dressed  in  rolls  under  a  rich  black  lace  cap 
or  mantilla.  Beneath  it  a  pair  of  clear  hazel  eyes,  still 
undimmed,  and  full  of  sweetness,  looked  out  brightly  at 
the  world ;  while  the  mouth,  soft  as  a  baby's,  had  just  a 
pathetic  droop  at  the  corners  which  gave  a  touch  of 
feeling  to  the  face  it  would  otherwise  have  lacked. 

The  figure  of  this  charming  lady  was  as  graceful  and 
slender  as  her  face  was  youthful.  It  was  set  off  to  the 
best  advantage  by  a  soft,  rich  coloured  gown,  confined 
at  the  waist  with  a  girdle,  and  flowing  thence  to  the  feet 
in  simple  folds.  In  front  the  bodice  parted  over  an 
undervest  of  clear,  white  lawn,  which  was  turned  back 
with  rich  lace  at  the  throat.  This  warm  August  morning 
the  lace  had  been  left  a  little  open,  and  the  brooch 
which  always  closed  it,  a  brooch  Roger  could  remember 
since  he  was  a  baby,  with  his  father's  hair  in  it,  was 
clasped  lower  down  on  the  bosom  of  the  dress. 


44  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Well,  lady  mother,"  he  said,  a  smile  for  a  moment 
lighting  up  his  grave  face  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  hand, 
"  here  am  I,  thou  seest,  back  within  the  time  thou  gavest 
me.  Didst  not  say  to-day  at  noon  ?  And  thou  art  at 
thy  marketing  again,  forsooth  I  Was  ever  such  a 
housewife  known  ?  " 

"  Welcome,  my  son."  she  said,  as  she  raised  him,  and 
kissed  him  with  pretty  ceremony  on  the  forehead: 
"  welcome  whene'er  thou  comest.  My  sons  are  as  the 
sunshine  to  me.  Prithee  go  not  often  from  home. 
Thine  old  mother  misses  thee  sorely." 

"Old!"  echoed  Roger,  with  a  little  laugh.  "Thou 
hast  aged  then  since  last  I  saw  thee,  for  I  left  the 
blythest  and  youngest  mother  of  her  years  in  England. 
Hath  all  gone  well?  "  he  continued,  anxiously. 

Mistress  Sparowe's  face  clouded.  "Well  ay.  Why 
dost  thou  ask  ?  Wherefore  should  anything  be  amiss  ?  " 
she  answered,  avoiding  his  eyes.  "  Hast  heard  anything  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  did  but  ask,"  said  Roger,  smiling  at  his 
mother's  anxious  face. 

"  Then  cease  thine  asking,  and  come  within,  and  tell 
me  how  thou  hast  fared  in  London." 

By  this  time  one  of  the  serving  men  had  led  off 
Roger's  horse  to  the  stable  in  the  rear.  The  young  man 
followed  his  mother  into  the  large  hall  which  formed 
the  whole  front  of  the  building.  Here  several  of  the 
maids  were  preparing  the  midday  meal,  which  was  the 
principal  repast  of  the  day.  Crossing  the  hall,  mother 
and  son  passed  on  to  the  noble  flight  of  oaken  stairs, 
richly  carved,  which  led  to  the  upper  rooms. 

"  Not  there,  mother,"  said  Roger,  stopping  her  as  she 
was  about  to  mount.  "  Here  in  the  withdrawing  room 
I  can  tell  thee  all  there  is  to  tell.  There  is  not  much." 

Roger  sighed,  and  the  wistful,  unquiet  look  his  face 
usually  wore  settled  on  it  again.  The  momentary 
pleasure  of  meeting  his  mother  was  over.  Things  were 
never  well  with  him  for  long  at  home.  Strive  as  he 
would  to  be  honest  and  upright  in  his  dealings,  as  became 
one  of  the  "  godly,"  he  was  perpetually  hindered  by  the 
schism  in  his  own  household.  With  their  strong  Royalist 


HOME    COMING.  45 

tendencies  it  was  impossible  but  that  his  mother  and 
brother,  if  they  did  not  actively  thwart  his  plans,  should 
wish  them  to  fail.  Roger  had  always  the  miserable 
sense  that  things  were  done  in  secret,  behind  his  back, 
which  it  behoved  him  to  know ;  and  his  difficulties  were 
increased  by  his  almost  idolatrous  devotion  to  his  mother, 
a  devotion  which  his  Puritan  friends  were  not  slow  to 
tell  him  was  almost  sinful.  The  feeling  of  deception  was 
painfully  heightened  by  his  last  discovery  at  Colchester. 

Dame  Margaret,  too,  had  her  cares,  and  her  face  was 
graver  than  usual  as  she  asked,  anxiously :  "  And  how 
hath  thy  business  sped  rny  son  ?  " 

"  Failed,  utterly  failed,"  said  Roger,  flinging  himself 
into  a  chair.  "  The  Assembly  would  scarce  give  me  so 
much  as  a  hearing.  They  began  to  question  mine  own 
orthodoxy,  and  I  had  to  make  mention  of  my  father's 
services  to  stop  them.  Ah,  mother,  I  have  griefs  that 
none  wot  of.  As  for  Master  Sturges,  he  must  e'en  stay, 
since  they  will  have  it  so,  and  work  us  what  harm  he  can." 

Roger  had  made  up  his  mind  that  his  mother  should 
learn  nothing  from  him  of  his  latest  trouble.  He  always 
sedulously  kept  all  evil  talk  from  her  ears,  but  he  could 
not  wholly  control  himself  to-day.  Mistress  Margaret 
looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  Never  have  I  understood  thy  bitterness  against 
Master  Sturges,  Roger,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "  A  worthy  preacher  of  the  Word,  a  godly  man, 
one  well  looked  on  by  all  in  the  town,  and  thou,  a 
Puritan  thyself,  wilt  have  no  dealings  with  him !  Tis 
passing  strange." 

"  An  he  were  all  thou  sayest,  'twere  more  than  strange 
that  I  should  be  thus  evilly-minded  towards  him," 
answered  Roger.  "  But  mother,  thou  knowest,  as  I  do, 
that  it  is  so  only  in  outward  seeming." 

Mistress  Sparowe  dropped  her  eyes,  and  blushed,  but 
recovering  herself  in  a  moment,  she  continued :  "  'Twill 
be  good  news  to  him  that  he  is  to  remain,  albeit  he  saith 
that  he  is  willing  to  go  or  stay,  the  holy  man.  I  shall 
have  the  joy  of  telling  him  first  thereof." 

"  How !  wilt  thou  go  to  him  ?  "  asked  Roger,  frowning. 


46  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Nay,  he  will  be  here  anon.    He  dines  with  us  to-day." 

"  He  will  be  here?"  repeated  Roger,  in  a  reproachful 
tone.  "  He  cometh  hither,  the  very  day  of  my  return  ? 
Mother,  hast  thou  done  this  ?  " 

"  I  knew  not  thou  wert  coming,  my  son,"  faltered 
Mistress  Margaret.  "  I  thought  perchance,  thou  wouldst 
be  delayed." 

"  But  thou  knowest  that,  whether  present  or  absent,  I 
desire  not  his  company.  Neither  I  nor  my  household 
should  have  dealings  with  him." 

"  Thou  art  too  stern,  Roger,"  replied  his  mother.  "  I 
was  compelled  to  ask  him  for  a  special  reason.  Nay, 
knit  not  thy  brows  at  me.  Thou  shalt — thou  must 
hear  thereof  anon." 

"  Ah,  mother,  mother,"  cried  Roger,  bitterly ;  "  who 
hath  been  at  work  here  while  I  was  absent  ?  What  hast 
thou  done,  thou,  and  Walter,  and  Master  Sturges  ?  Are 
ye  all  in  league  against  me  ?  " 

Dame  Margaret  hated  everything  that  threatened  to 
be  unpleasant,  and  was  determined  to  stave  off  as  long 
as  possible  the  disagreeable  explanation  which  she  knew 
to  be  impending. 

"  Now,  thou  art  at  thine  old  trick  of  fault-finding 
again,  Roger  !  "  she  exclaimed,  plaintively.  "  In  good 
time  thou  shalt  know  all,  only  hurry  me  not.  Prithee 
tell  me  first,  didst  thou  verily  spend  all  thy  time  at 
Westminster,  on  thy  doleful  errand !  Didst  see  nought 
else  in  London  ?  Hast  brought  no  news  ?  no  talk  of 
fashions,  wherewith  to  amuse  thy  mother,  who  is  moped 
to  death  in  this  country  place  ?  " 

"  Fashions,  mother  !  "  echoed  Roger,  drearily.  "  Nay, 
I  thought  not  of  fashions.  I  could  not  discourse  thereof, 
an  I  had  seen  a  countess  in  her  bravest  attire.  Some 
new  devices  in  head  pieces  I  examined  .  .  .  But  the 
fashion  we  need  is  the  fashion  of  repentance,  that  we 
should  turn  with  all  our  hearts  unto  the  Lord,  if  haply 
He  will  have  mercy  upon  us." 

"  Didst  have  speech  of  Ralph  Wentworth  ?  "  inquired 
Mistress  Margaret,  who  always  tried  to  stop  Roger, 
when  he  discoursed  in  this  strain. 


HOME    COMING.  47 

"Yea,  I  saw  Ralph.  How  didst  thou  know  that  I 
purposed  to  see  him  ?  And  he  hath  refused  my  counsel 
and  warning,  and  hath  gone  to  join  the  King  of  Scots." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Mistress  Sparowe.  "  I  knew  of 
a  surety  he  would  go.  And  how  went  he  ?  with  whom  ? 
Had  he  companions?  Didst  thou  take  note  of  the  way 
he  journeyed  ?  " 

"  Nay  :  wherefore  should  I  ?  "  replied  Roger,  surprised 
at  her  eagerness.  "  He  went,  that  alone  did  concern 
me.  He  would  not  stay  for  all  my  pleadings.  We  are 
not  like  to  follow  him,  any  of  us,  I  trow.  He  is  gone  for 
ever.  For  either  he  will  be  slain,  or  taken  prisoner,  or 
compelled  to  flee  beyond  the  seas.  For  once  I  wished 
myself  not  well  of  my  lame  foot,  since  now  we  cannot 
cross  swords  with  each  other." 

Before  Dame  Margaret  could  answer,  the  door  from 
the  hall  was  pushed  open,  and  a  young  man  sauntered 
carelessly  into  the  room. 

"Ah,  Roger,  thou  art  there,"  he  said,  recognizing 
Roger  with  a  start.  "  Methought  I  heard  thy  voice  in 
the  hall.  The  Fates  will  have  it,  then,  that  we  meet 
once  more.  Mother" — he  turned  to  her — "there  lacks 
a  strap  to  my  gorget.  Prithee  let  one  cf  the  men  run 
with  speed  to  the  blacksmith's  for  it." 

Roger  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at  his  brother 
in  unfeigned  astonishment.  '•  We  meet  once  more, 
sayest  thou  ?  and  thou  in  this  guise  ?  "  He  pointed 
to  the  other's  buff  jerkin  and  pistols.  "  Whither  goest 
thou,  Walter,  thus  armed  ?  "  he  asked,  hastily.  "  Before 
thou  undertake  a  journey,  'twere  well  surely  to  speak 
with  me." 

"  Thou  wert  from  home,"  answered  Walter  Sparowe, 
sullenly,  "  and  the  matter  pressed.  The  need  was 
urgent  for  us  to  be  gone  at  once.  Hath  my  mother 
told  thee  nought  ?  " 

"  Thy  brother  is  but  now  come,"  replied  Mistress 
Margaret,  rising ;  "  and  I  have  scarce  had  speech  with 
him  yet.  Prithee  tell  him  thy  news  thyself,  and  I 
meanwhile  will  see  to  thy  gear."  And,  gathering  up 


48  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

her  dress,  Mistress  Margaret  tripped  from  the  room, 
inwardly  congratulating  herself  on  having  escaped  the 
coming  storm. 

It  was  impossible  to  imagine  a  greater  contrast  than 
Roger  and  Walter  Sparowe  presented.  Roger's  spare, 
slender  figure  was  always  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  in 
the  half  conscious  endeavour  to  make  the  most  of  it ; 
Walter  was  tall  and  largely  made,  with  a  habitual  stoop, 
and  already  inclined  to  the  corpulence  which  had  been 
a  distinguishing  characteristic  of  most  of  the  Sparowes 
for  generations.  He  was  only  one  and  twenty,  and  thus 
three  or  four  years  younger  than  Roger,  but  his  figure 
made  him  look  the  older  of  the  two.  He  had  a  high, 
smooth  forehead,  large,  feebly-moulded  chin,  and 
aquiline  nose,  features  which  were  repeated  with  more 
or  less  variation  in  the  ancestral  portraits  round  the 
room. 

As  handsome  as  Roger  was  plain,  his  face  neverthe- 
less on  close  inspection  gave  a  certain,  not  altogether 
pleasing,  impression  of  weakness  and  indecision.  His 
small,  well-shaped  mouth,  the  upper  lip  just  touched 
with  a  light  down,  added  to  his  effeminate  appearance. 
He  wore  his  beautiful  hair  in  soft  ringlets,  which  fell  to 
the  shoulder  over  a  rich  lace  collar.  The  same  costly 
lace  was  turned  back  at  the  wrist  from  his  white, 
shapely  hands.  It  was  a  somewhat  incongruous  addition 
to  the  stout  coat  made  of  buffalo  leather,  with  which 
every  man  who  went  to  war  was  provided.  But  it  was 
the  fashion  of  the  Cavaliers  to  affect  this  dainty  attire, 
even  in  battle. 

The  two  brothers  looked  at  each  other  askance.  Both 
were  conscious  of  a  disagreeable  secret  which  it  was 
necessary  for  the  other  to  know,  but  which  neither  cared 
to  tell.  At  length  Walter  tossed  his  long  gloves  down 
on  the  table,  and  said,  with  assumed  carelessness :  "  I 
go  from  hence  to-day,  Roger." 

"Thou  doest  well  to  tell  me  now,"  rejoined  Roger, 
angrily,  "when  it  is  too  late  to  hinder  thy  journey. 
May  thine  elder  brother,  forsooth,  be  permitted  to  ask 
whither  ?  " 


HOME    COMING.  49 

"  Whither,  but  there  where  it  behoves  every  true  and 
loyal  man  to  be  " — Walter  raised  his  head  defiantly — 
"  I  have  engaged  myself  to  join  the  army  of  our 
Sovereign  lord  the  King." 

"  Charles  Stuart !  the  King  of  Scots  !  To  go  to  him !  " 
cried  Roger,  aghast.  "  Nay,  Walter,  it  shall  not  be. 
Never  while  I  am  master  in  this  house  shall  one  go  from 
it  to  ally  himself  with  the  man  of  sin.  I  forbid  it  thee." 

Walter  laughed  bitterly.  "  Thou  forbid  it,  forsooth  ! 
And  by  what  right  dost  thou  forbid  it  ?  Our  father's 
death  hath  made  thee  master  here,  but  not  master  of 
mine  actions.  I  am  free  to  come  and  go  as  I  list." 
The  young  man  drew  himself  up  as  he  spoke,  and 
towered  over  his  brother  in  his  indignation. 

"  Free,  aye,"  groaned  Roger,  flinging  himself  into  a 
chair.  "  Free,  as  thou  sayest.  Free  to  rush  to  thine 
own  destruction,  as  Ralph  hath  done,  and  dishonour  me 
for  ever.  Have  I  no  claim  then  on  thee  ?  " 

"  None,  if  thou  dost  think  to  hold  me  back,"  said 
Walter.  "  I'  faith,  thou  hast  not  made  me  so  welcome 
in  thine  house  of  late,  that  I  should  desire  to  remain. 
Mine  honour  and  duty  call  me." 

"Thou  goest  to  certain  ruin." 

"  Ruin,  fie  !  The  tide  hath  turned,  I  tell  thee.  The 
king  will  soon  come  into  his  own  again,  and  these 
Puritan  knaves  shall  have  their  deserts.  We  will  drive 
them  out  and  make  them  quit  their  ill-gotten  gains. 
And  then,  when  thy  brother  returns  in  trumph,  thou 
wilt  be  fain  to  creep  to  him,  and  pray  him  to  speak  a 
word  on  thy  behalf." 

"  Oh,  fools,  fools,  all  of  ye !  "  groaned  Roger.  "  It  is 
not  as  thou  sayest,  Walter.  We  are  strong  as  ever,  and 
the  Lord  General  hath  never  been  beaten  yet." 

Walter  laughed  derisively.  "  And  how,  if  he  were 
beaten  now  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Thou  canst  not  deny  it, 
Roger.  Our  army  hath  given  him  the  slip.  This  once, 
at  least,  he  hath  been  foiled." 

"  For  some  good  purpose  he  hath  suffered  the  Scottish 
army  to  pass  him,  but  there  is  no  man  in  England  who 
doubts  him.  And  the  issue  is  sure.  For  thou  and  thy 

E 


50  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

fellows,  Walter,  trust  in  an  arm  of  flesh,  but  with  us  is 
the  Lord  of  Hosts." 

Walter  turned  on  his  heel,  and  paced  the  room  angrily. 
Like  Wentworth,  he  could  not  bear  this  sanctimonious 
phraseology  from  Roger's  lips.  It  always  seemed  to 
drive  him  to  fury. 

"  And  how  wilt  thou  restrain  me  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Wilt 
thou  use  force  ?  for  I  tell  thee  plainly,  by  suasion  shalt 
thou  effect  nothing.  Good,  then.  Bid  the  men  who 
have  served  me  from  childhood  guard  the  door,  that 
their  young  master  may  not  go  forth,  and  fight  for  his 
king.  Or  turn  informer,  if  it  like  thee,  and  hail  me 
before  the  town  council,  that  they  may  put  me  in  ward, 
because  I  will  not  forswear  all  honour  and  loyalty  to  my 
country.  Thou  art  a  justice  thyself;  the  thing  is  easy." 

Never  before  had  the  indolent  Walter  worked  himself 
up  into  such  a  tempest  of  wrath.  He  walked  to  and  fro, 
hurling  bitter  words  at  his  brother,  while  Roger  sat  with 
face  in  his  hands. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,  thou  sayest,  truly ;  I  cannot  do  it," 
he  muttered,  "  no,  not  if  I  give  half  my  fortune  to  keep 
thee.  And  I,  a  Puritan,  well  reported  of  among  the 
godly  in  the  town  1  Disgraced  and  put  to  confusion,  by 
mine  own  kindred." 

"Thou  hadst  no  call  to  be  a  Puritan,"  retorted  Walter. 
"  Wherefore  couldst  thou  not  adhere  to  the  traditions 
of  our  house  ?  Our  ancestors  did  good  service  to  the 
king,  ay,  and  sealed  it  with  their  blood  at  Hexham  and 
Bosworth,  as  I  am  ready  to  do  now.  What  spirit 
possessed  our  father  to  take  part  with  the  fanatics,  and 
to  join  himself  with  that  arch-traitor  Cromwell  ?  " 

"  Hold ! "  cried  Roger,  fiercely,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"Thou  shalt  not  speak  those  honoured  names  thus 
lightly.  Thou  art  not  worthy  to  loose  the  shoe  latchet 
of  our  saintly  father.  Such  as  thou  wilt  never  know 
what  it  cost  him  to  eschew  the  evil  and  pursue  the  good. 
'Twas  a  nature,  the  depths  whereof  thou  couldst  never 
sound ;  and  such  another  is  my  Lord  General." 

Walter  felt  that  he  had  gained  his  point,  and  was  in 
no  mood  to  prolong  the  discussion.  At  this  moment,  to 


HOME    COMING.  51 

his  secret  relief,  the  great  house  bell  rang,  notifying  to 
all  that  the  hour  of  noon  had  arrived,  and  with  it  the 
one  great  meal  of  the  day.  Roger  rose  from  his  seat, 
and  stood  for  a  few  minutes  by  the  table,  trying  to 
compose  himself.  Walter  gathered  up  his  gloves,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  the  hall,  whistling  a  tune,  when  Roger 
stopped  him. 

"  A  moment  more,  Walter,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "  Our 
mother  saith  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Sturges  cometh 
here  to-day,  to  dine  with  us.  Is  this  thy  doing  ?  " 

"  No,  'twas  our  mother  who  asked  him,"  answered 
Walter,  readily.  "  It  seemed  meet  that  he  should  come 
to  bid  me  farewell,  and  " — he  glanced  round  the  room, 
and  lowered  his  voice — "  to  provide  me  with  some 
matters  I  needed." 

"Ay,  I  understand  thee,  with  credentials,"  replied 
Roger,  bitterly.  "  Credentials  from  such  as  he  to  mine 
own  brother,  and  the  son  of  so  godly  a  father.  It  is 
he,  then,  who  hath  urged  thee  to  this  journey  in  mine 
absence.  Deny  it  not,  Walter.  He  hath  worked  on  thy 
youth  and  innocence,  and  thou  hast  listened  greedily  to 
his  words.  I  cannot  stop  his  false,  honied  tongue,"  he 
continued  mournfully,  "  nor  thine  ears  from  giving  heed 
to  it.  But  here  in  this  house  it  shall  not  be.  How 
didst  thou  presume  to  ask  him,  when  thou  knowest  that 
I  will  not  suffer  it  ?  " 

"  Our  mother  would  have  it  so,"  said  Walter,  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  "  She  hath  a  marvellous  love  and  affec- 
tion for  this  man,  at  which  I  wonder  oftentimes  seeing 
she  knoweth  him  not  fully." 

"  But  thou  who  dost  know  him,  how  canst  thou  lend 
thyself  to  the  deception  daily  practiced  upon  her,  and 
upon  the  whole  town  ?  "  said  Roger,  hotly.  "  Hast  thou 
no  truth  or  honour  in  thee,  that  thou  dost  seek  the 
company  of  one  whose  whole  life  is  a  lie  ?  " 

Walter  started  up  fiercely,  and  for  a  moment  it  seemed 
as  if  the  quarrel  between  the  brothers  must  come  to 
blows,  but  he  controlled  himself. 

"  There  may  be  reasons  for  that  I  do,"  he  said. 
"  Prithee  leave  me  in  peace,  and  inquire  not  too  closely 


52  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

concerning  me.  As  for  this  man,"  he  continued,  in  a 
more  conciliatory  tone,  warned  by  a  look  of  indignant 
surprise  from  Roger,  "  he  liveth  peaceably  and  giveth 
offence  to  none.  If  thou  dost  bruit  abroad  that  thou 
knowest,  it  may  cost  him  his  neck,  and  thou  wilt  be 
guilty  of  his  blood.  And  in  any  case  while  he  is  here 
we  cannot  have  some  canting  Puritan  knave  thrust  upon 
us." 

With  this  parting  shot,  Walter  sprang  up  a  short  flight 
of  steps,  and  entered  the  entrance  hall.  Here  the  mid- 
day meal  was  prepared  at  a  table  in  the  centre.  For 
some  years  after  the  house  was  built,  the  good  old 
practice  had  still  obtained  that  the  whole  household, 
masters  and  servants,  should  dine  together.  But  this 
custom  had  long  fallen  into  disuse ;  and  Walter,  as  he 
came  from  the  withdrawing  room,  found  no  one  at  the 
table  but  his  mother  and  a  sleek,  smooth-faced  man,  to 
whom  she  was  talking  eagerly. 

There  was  nothing  at  first  sight  to  distinguish  the 
Reverend  Obadiah  Sturges,the  subject  of  such  passionate 
controversy  in  the  Sparowe  family,  from  any  other  godly 
minister.  His  dress  was  ostentatiously  clerical — a  black 
Genevan  gown,  and  snow-white  collar  and  bands.  He 
was  of  middle  height,  his  features  unexpressive,  his  light 
blue  eyes  almost  devoid  of  animation.  His  head  was 
small,  and  looked  still  smaller,  because  of  the  tight- 
fitting  black  skull  cap  he  always  wore,  which  scarcely 
allowed  his  close-cropped  hair  to  be  seen.  These  caps, 
coming  down  low  over  the  ears,  were  much  affected  by 
elderly  men  in  those  days.  Perhaps  the  Reverend 
Master  Obadiah  was  somewhat  more  unctuous  in  speech 
and  larded  his  discourse  more  freely  with  Biblical 
phraseology,  than  was  held  to  be  necessary ;  bet  this 
was  accounted,  by  his  more  ardent  followers,  as  a  sign  of 
a  godly  disposition.  To  any  one  who  had  heard  the  hot 
discussions  concerning  him  in  the  Sparowe  household, 
and  throughout  the  town,  and  had  known  that  Roger's 
journey  to  London  had  been  undertaken  with  no  other 
object  than  to  effect  his  removal,  the  sight  of  the  minister 
himself  was  disappointing.  It  seemed  incredible  that  so 


HOME    COMING.  53 

insignificant  a  man  should  possess  so  much  influence 
or  be  worthy  of  so  many  heart  burnings. 

The  meal  proceeded  almost  in  silence.  Roger  was  in 
no  mood  for  conversation.  Although  their  intercourse 
had  been  already  strained  to  the  verge  of  a  quarrel, 
he  knew  that  he  must  have  further  speech  of  his 
brother  before  he  went.  Walter,  who  was  secretly 
afraid  of  his  stern  elder  brother  when  he  chose  to 
assert  his  authority,  maintained  a  discreet  silence;  while 
the  Reverend  Obadiah,  never  a  man  of  many  words, 
was  more  than  usually  quiet. 

Nevertheless  he  played  his  part  manfully  in  the  main 
busiaess  of  the  meal.  Saint  as  he  was,  even  his 
admirers  could  not  deny  that  he  was  not  above  a  certain 
serene  enjoyment  of  the  good  things  of  this  life,  and  the 
bountiful  hospitality  of  the  "  Old  House "  was  never 
lost  upon  him. 

"  Is  it  permitted  me  to  ask  how  you  fared  in  London, 
Master  Sparowe  ?  "  he  said  at  last,  in  the  monotonous 
nasal  tone  many  of  the  Puritans  had  contracted.  "  Hath 
it  been  granted  you  to  help  towards  the  Lord's  work  ?  " 

Master  Obadiah  spoke  as  if  he  had  only  a  gentle 
interest  in  the  matter,  but  Roger,  glancing  up,  saw  a 
slight  quiver  of  his  thin  lips,  and  knew  instantly  that  the 
Puritan  was  as  well  aware  of  the  purport  of  his  journey 
as  he  was  himself. 

"  I  fared  well  or  ill,  sir,  as  it  may  like  you  to  take  it," 
he  answered,  with  the  visible  constraint  he  was  always 
compelled  to  put  upon  himself  whenever  he  addressed 
the  minister. 

"  Saw  you  your  friend  ?  " 

"  Yea,  and  did  nought  with  him.  He  would  not  heed 
me,"  answered  Roger,  moodily.  "  He  hath  gone  to  the 
fight." 

Only  Roger,  who  was  watching  Master  Sturges 
sharply,  saw  him  nod  his  head  softly,  as  if  the  news 
were  not  wholly  unexpected. 

"  Roger  is  grieved  for  his  friend,"  said  Mistress 
Margaret ;  "  but  I  tell  him  all  will  soon  be  well  again. 
It  is  right  that  he  should  not  go  to  the  war,  for  assuredly 


54  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

the  Roundheads  will  soon  be  defeated.  And  then 
England  will  join  as  one  man  to  welcome  her  king." 

"  Amen,  noble  lady,  if  he  come  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord,"  rejoined  Master  Sturges,  with  much  fervour. 
"  If  he  will  submit  himself  to  our  godly  ministers  here, 
as  he  hath  done  already  in  Scotland,  I  doubt  not  the 
Lord  will  restore  him." 

Mistress  Margaret  gazed  at  the  speaker  in  a  perplexed 
way  for  a  moment,  but  seeing  that  he  returned  her  look 
with  perfect  equanimity,  she  recovered  her  composure. 
Undoubtedly  she  was  the  most  cheerful  of  the  four 
to-day.  She  was  grieved  to  part  with  her  younger  son 
on  so  dangerous  a  mission,  but,  naturally  sanguine,  she 
did  not  realize  to  what  he  would  be  exposed.  She  was 
sure  there  would  be  no  battle.  The  sight  of  the  young 
king  would  disarm  all  opposition,  and  he  would  soon  be 
able  to  enter  London  in  triumph.  The  Puritan  faction 
— Mistress  Margaret  could  never  understand  that 
the  Puritan  faction  had  grown  into  a  victorious  and 
all-powerful  nation — would  be  disposed  of  in  some 
comfortable  way,  Roger  would  be  persuaded  to  give  up 
his  praying  and  Psalm  singing,  and  Walter  would  easily 
make  peace  for  him  with  the  Royalists. 

So  she  chatted  gaily  on,  relieved  to  find  that  the 
announcement  of  Walter's  departure  had  apparently 
not  led  to  an  open  breach  between  the  brothers,  though 
both  sat  moody  and  silent.  She  rallied  Roger  on  his 
grave  face,  and  loaded  Walter  with  tender  little  motherly 
directions  for  his  health  and  comfort,  not  one  of  which 
he  was  likely  to  remember.  In  the  fulness  of  her 
satisfaction  she  submitted,  without  a  sigh,  to  the 
lengthy  grace  with  which  Mr.  Sturges  concluded  the 
meal.  Mistress  Margaret  flattered  herself  that  all 
danger  of  a  collision  was  over.  She  was  struck  with 
consternation,  therefore,  to  hear  Roger  say,  sternly,  as 
Walter  sprang  impatiently  up : — 

"  A  word  further  with  thee,  brother." 

With  a  beating  heart,  Walter  followed  Roger  once 
more  into  the  withdrawing  room,  and  through  it  to  a  long, 
low  room,  lined  with  oaken  wainscotting,  richly  carved 


HOME    COMING.  55 

from  floor  to  ceiling,  which  looked  into  the  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  Like  his  mother,  he  had  fancied 
that  all  fear  of  opposition  was  past.  He  ran  hastily  over 
in  his  mind  the  possible  points  of  difference  between  him 
and  his  brother.  His  departure  to  join  the  Royalist 
army,  the  unwelcome  presence  of  Master  Sturges — Roger 
had  acquiesced  in  all  these,  with  however  bad  a  grace. 
But,  for  all  his  gay  careless  nature,  there  were  certain 
passages  in  Walter's  life  which  not  for  the  whole  world 
would  he  have  wished  Roger  to  hear  of.  His  brother's 
rigid  Puritanism,  and  the  distracted  circumstances  of 
the  times,  had  made  a  conspirator  of  him,  almost  against 
his  will.  With  ill-concealed  anxiety,  therefore,  he  waited 
for  Roger  to  speak. 

But  Roger  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  begin  his  unpleasant 
communication.  He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  into  the  garden — a  small,  carefully  cultivated  en- 
closure between  high  walls,  just  now  flooded  with  the 
brilliant  light  of  the  noonday  sun.  Then  he  came  back 
to  the  great  hearth  at  the  further  end  of  the  room,  his 
lameness  showing  the  plainer  as  he  walked,  because  he 
was  wearied  with  his  journey. 

"  Walter,"  he  began  at  last,  in  a  husky  voice,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  empty  hearth,  "  I  have  somewhat  more 
to  say  to  thee.  Prithee  come  here" — as  he  heard  his 
brother  moving  about  at  the  other  end  of  the  room — 
"  and  give  heed  to  me.  That  which  I  have  to  speak  of 
concerns  thee  much." 

Walter  came  forward,  and  flung  himself  sulkily  down 
upon  a  settle  in  the  chimney  corner. 

"  My  time  is  short,"  he  said.  "  Pray  thee,  brother, 
speak  briefly,  and  to  the  point.  Or,  better  still,  speak 
not  at  all.  Wherefore  should  our  parting  be  further 
embittered  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  must  speak,  I  dare  not  leave  it.  Think  not 
thus  to  escape  me,"  said  Roger,  angrily.  "  Last  night, 
Walter,  I  lay  at  Colchester — at  the  '  Bull '  inn." 

Walter  started,  but  did  not  speak,  and  Roger  con- 
tinued :  "  Dost  know  who  lives  at  the  '  Bull '  inn,  at 
Colchester,  or  do  I  need  to  tell  thee  ?  " 


56  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

Walter  twisted  uneasily  on  the  settle,  but  still  main- 
tained an  obstinate  silence.  "  Thou  dost  put  me  then  to 
the  shame  of  speaking  that  I  scarce  know  how  to  utter," 
continued  Roger,  his  pale  face  crimson  with  agitation. 
"  Thou  mightest  have  spared  me,  or  at  least  have  met 
me  half-way,  if  thou  knowest  aught  thereof.  A  woman 
lives  there — I  know  not  her  name — who  saith  she  is — 
thy  wife ! " 

"  Never ! "  exclaimed  Walter,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  The  impudent  hussy !  Hath  she  dared  to  speak  ?  'Tis 
a  lie,  an  infamous  lie !  I  will  confront  her  with  it,  and 
thrust  it  down  her  throat." 

"  It  is  not  true,  then,"  said  Roger,  looking  up  with  an 
expression  of  intense  relief.  "  She  hath  slandered  thee  ? 
Oh  1  shame  upon  me,  that  I  gave  her  credence.  Forgive 
me,  brother.  For  a  moment  she  spoke  so  stoutly,  I 
believed  it  of  thee." 

Roger  stretched  out  his  hand,  but  Walter  did  not  take  it. 

"  How  meanest  thou,  Roger?"  he  said,  stiffly,  avoiding 
his  brother's  eyes.  "  Let  me  know  first  whereof  I  am 
accused.  This  woman,  what  said  she  to  thee  ?  What 
crime  did  she  lay  to  my  charge  ?  " 

"  Nay,  what  signifieth  what  she  said,  since  thou  hast 
declared  it  untrue  ?  Wherefore  should  we  talk  of  crime  ? 
Thou  hast  not  done  her  this  wrong,  let  that  suffice  us 
both.  Oh !  Walter,  I  knew  it  well.  I  told  her  she 
mistook  us.  That  a  Sparowe  would  never  so  far  forget 
the  honour  of  his  house,  as  to  give  to  such  as  her  the 
right  to  be  his  wife." 

"  As  for  right,"  returned  Walter,  uneasily,  "'tis  a  nice 
question,  that.  These  women  be  hard  to  pacify.  Give 
them  an  inch,  and  they  will  take  an  ell.  Let  them  think 
they  have  the  least  claim  upon  you,  and,  look  you,  they 
push  it  to  the  utmost." 

"  Walter !  "  Roger  stopped  his  brother  with  a  look  of 
horror.  "  What  meanest  thou  ?  Tell  me,  I  beseech 
thee,  the  whole  truth  for  once,  if  thou  hast  never  told  it 
before.  Hath  this  woman  any  claim  upon  thee  ?  " 

"  Nay,  how  should  I  know  ?  "  answered  Walter.  "  Thou 
dost  press  me  too  hard.  Thou  art  a  saint  thyself.  Ye 


HOME    COMING.  57 

are  all  saints,  ye  Puritans,  and  ye  have  no  pity  for  our 
faults.  Ye  know  naught  of  the  temptations  which  beset 
us." 

"  It  is  not  true — it  cannot  be  true !  "  muttered  Roger. 
"  Oh,  Walter,  purify  thy  soul  by  penitence !  " 

Walter  laughed.  "  Tis  no  such  great  crime,  after  all. 
Thou  art  a  fool,  Roger,  for  all  thy  sainthood.  May  not 
a  man  kiss  a  pretty  girl,  but  thou  must  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  punish  him  ?  " 

"Walter!"  Roger  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  as  he  crouched  back  in  the  chimney 
corner.  "An  this  be  true,  as  thou  dost  drive  me  to 
think — for  even  now  thou  wilt  not  reveal  the  whole 
matter — we  are  brothers  no  longer.  I  have  rebuked 
thee.  Henceforth  thou  art  to  me  as  an  heathen  man 
and  a  publican.  But,  ohl  once  more,  I  conjure  thee, 
speak,  if  it  be  not  true." 

There  was  dead  silence  for  a  moment.  Walter  turned 
sullenly  away,  and  began  to  pace  the  room. 

"  Thou  hast  broken  God's  law,"  said  Roger  solemnly, 
after  a  long  pause.  "  Beside  that,  'tis  a  small  matter 
that  the  honour  of  our  noble  house  is  stained.  Thou  art 
no  longer  fit  to  dwell  beneath  the  same  roof  as  our  pure 
mother." 

"  Cast  me  out,  then,"  cried  Walter,  vehemently. 
4t  Drive  me  forth  from  the  home  where  thou  and  I  have 
dwelt  as  children.  Cut  the  link  that  binds  us  1  In  good 
sooth,"  he  went  on  with  a  bitter  smile,  "  my  saintly 
brother  hath  well  chosen  his  time  to  send  me  adrift, 
when  I  am  about  to  hazard  life  and  limb.  The  world 
will  not  judge  me  so  hardly.  'Tis  but  a  little  sin.  None 
but  thou  had  thought  it  worthy  of  mention  ;  thou  wilt 
make  of  it,  meseems,  a  life-long  quarrel." 

"  Repair  it,  then.  Marry  her  who  in  the  sight  of  the 
Lord  is  already  thy  wife." 

"  No,  for  ten  thousand  crowns,  no,"  cried  Walter, 
41  What,  marry  such  an  one  ?  Force  our  lady  mother, 
daily  and  hourly,  to  bear  her  company.  Nay,  if  I  did  it, 
thou  mightest  then  cry  shame  on  me.  'Twould  be  a  stain 
on  our  noble  shield,  such  as  it  hath  never  yet  known." 


58  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Thou  hast  stained  it  already,"  answered  Roger.  "The 
soil  is  there,  whether  thou  wilt  see  it  or  no." 

"  Prithee,  cease  thy  sermon,"  said  Walter,  striding  to 
the  door.  "  Time  presseth.  I  must  be  gone,  and  have 
yet  to  bid  farewell  to  my  mother." 

"  Ay,  we  do  but  waste  words,"  sighed  Roger.  "  Hear 
me,  then,  Walter.  Our  father's  house  shall  still  be  open 
to  thee.  Thou  shalt  not  be  cut  adrift,  as  thou  sayest. 
Come  when  thou  wilt,  for  our  mother's  sake,  the  door 
shall  not  be  closed  upon  thee,  but  speech  from  me  thou 
shalt  not  have  again.  Until  thou  repair  the  evil  thou 
hast  done: — if  that  may  ever  be — seek  me  no  furthur.  I 
will  pray  for  thee.  Night  and  day  I  will  beseech  the 
Lord  that  He  be  gracious  unto  thee,  and  deliver  thee 
from  the  bond  of  this  sin.  But  from  this  day  forth  we 
have  no  further  concern  one  with  the  other.  Walter, 
farewell." 

And  with  one  look,  more  of  sorrow  then  anger,  at  his 
brother,  Roger  passed  from  the  room,  and  went  slowly 
up  the  great  oaken  staircase  to  his  own  chamber.  Here 
he  was  wont  to  spend  hours  every  day  in  lonely  medita- 
tion, or  in  agonized  wrestlings  upon  his  knees,  the  open 
Bible  before  him  ;  and  here  he  flung  himself  down  in  a 
tumult  of  feeling,  too  much  agitated  to  frame  a  single 
prayer.  He  did  not  re-appear  in  the  household,  not 
even,  as  the  servants  thought  he  might  have  done,  to 
bid  his  brother  a  last  farewell.  He  left  the  charge  of 
speeding  him  on  his  journey  to  his  mother  and  Master 
Sturges.  And  every  one  stood  too  much  in  awe  of  the 
young  squire's  solitary  retirement,  to  break  in  upon  it. 
Perhaps  he  was  jealous  of  his  brother,  whispered  the 
serving  men  to  each  other,  as  they  stood  watching  the 
handsome  young  fellow  ride  off,  attended  by  a  couple  of 
well-armed  varlets,  to  join  his  companions  outside  the 
town.  But  at  least  the  Master  might  have  come  to 
comfort  his  mother,  and  to  lead  her  away  when,  in 
spite  of  her  boasted  courage,  her  spirits  failed,  and  she 
burst  into  piteous  sobs  as  she  waved  farewell  to  the 
traveller. 


59 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    CHIMNEY    RECESS. 


THE  great  dissension  between  Cavaliers  and  Puritans, 
which  had  convulsed  all  England  for  the  last  ten  years, 
was  no  new  thing  in  the  Sparowe  family.  There,  as 
elsewhere,  it  might  truly  be  said  that  a  man's  foes  were 
they  of  his  own  household.  Robert  Sparowe,  the  father 
of  Roger  and  Walter,  was  a  man  whose  name  was 
always  mentioned  with  tender  love  and  sorrow  by  his 
wife  and  children,  and  with  reverence  in  the  town.  He 
had  been  a  Puritan  all  his  life,  though  he  came  of  a 
Cavalier  stock.  He  was  one  of  a  large  family,  most  of 
whom  had  died  young.  Much  of  his  childhood  had 
been  spent  in  the  house  of  a  maiden  aunt,  the  daughter 
of  a  certain  Judge  Clench,  who  had  been  a  noted  man 
among  what  we  might  call  the  Low  Church  party  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Robert  Sparowe,  growing  to  manhood  amid  the  varied 
influences  of  the  great  city  of  London,  had  been  an  eye- 
witness of  the  terror  caused  by  the  discovery  of  the 
Gunpowder  Plot.  The  effect  upon  him  was  vivid  and 
permanent.  The  dread  of  Popery,  which  grew  in  time 
among  the  Puritans  to  an  almost  unreasoning  horror, 
took  possession  of  him,  and  coloured  all  his  life.  He 
soon  recoiled,  not  only  from  Catholicism,  but  from  those 
rites  and  ceremonies  which  the  Church  of  England  had 
retained,  and  which  seemed  to  him  only  another  disguise 
of  the  scarlet  woman  of  Babylon. 

Church  and  dissent  were  not  then  marked  off  into 
the  broad  divisions  which  have  parted  them  since  the 
Restoration.  Those  who  actually  dissented  from  the 
established  religion,  Anabaptists,  Quakers,  and  the  like, 
were  looked  upon  with  quite  as  much  horror  by  the 
Puritans,  or  Low  Churchmen,  as  by  the  Laudites- 


60  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

They  were  branded  as  heretics,  and  both  parties  joined 
in  persecuting  them  rigorously.  The  word  dissenter  was 
unknown ;  the  Puritans  still  formed  part  of  the  National 
Church.  Robert  Sparowe  punctually  attended  the 
services  in  the  parish  church — was  even  churchwarden 
and  filled  other  offices  of  a  like  nature,  but  always  with 
a  growing  horror  of  the  Romanizing  tendencies  fostered 
by  Archbishop  Laud.  Outwardly  he  belonged  to  the 
Church  of  his  fathers,  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up. 
There  was  no  recognised  sect  beyond  the  ecclesiastical 
pals,  to  which  a  man  who  valued  his  reputation  as  a 
Christian  could  adhere.  But  he  began  to  feel  towards 
the  Anglican  liturgy,  and  the  hierarchical  form  of 
government,  that  fierce  hatred  which  distinguished  all 
the  Puritans,  and  which  caused  the  abolition  of  the 
English  Church,  as  soon  as  the  rival  party  was  in  power. 

While  these  opposing  forces  were  at  work,  poor  foolish 
King  James  died,  and  Charles  I. — young,  graceful,  clever, 
and  gifted  with  all  the  strange,  personal  fascination  of 
the  Stuarts — came  to  the  throne.  Just  about  this  time 
Robert  Sparowe,  who,  by  the  death  of  several  brothers, 
had  become  the  head  of  the  house,  took  to  himself  a 
wife.  Not  such  a  staid,  God-fearing  maiden  as  the 
Puritan  party  in  the  town,  to  whom  he  had  already 
allied  himself,  hoped  and  expected.  He  fixed  his  fancy 
on  a  charming,  lovely  girl,  who  came  of  an  old  but 
impoverished  county  family,  had  nothing  but  her  pretty 
face  and  sweet  ways  to  recommend  her,  and  had  been 
bred  in  the  highest  and  stiffest  Anglicanism. 

With  her  the  grave  and  pious  Master  Robert  Sparowe 
fell  "over  head  and  ears"  in  love.  In  a  short  time  he 
wooed  and  won  her,  and  to  the  day  of  his  death  she 
remained  the  idol  of  his  heart. 

It  is  possible  that  the  new  wife  might,  as  was  feared, 
have  drawn  Master  Sparowe  away  from  his  rigid 
profession  of  religion  had  he  not,  a  few  years  later, 
formed  a  friendship  which,  like  his  passionate  love  for 
his  wife,  lasted  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  There  was  a 
certain  quiet,  rough,  country  gentleman,  living  at 
Huntingdon,  within  two  days'  ride  of  Ipswich,  who  was 


THE    CHIMNEY   RECESS.  61 

already  beginning  to  be  recognised  as  a  man  of  weight 
in  the  country.  It  was  by  accident  that  Robert  Sparowe 
first  met  this  same  Mr.  Cromwell,  and  was  attracted  at 
once,  despite  his  homely  appearance,  by  his  singular 
earnestness,  and  the  power  and  depth  of  his  character. 
From  henceforth  the  young  man  knew  what  it  was  to 
have  a  friend.  The  intimacy  ripened  slowly  but  surely, 
and  the  strength  and  comfort  which,  as  time  went  on, 
he  felt  to  be  lacking  in  his  own  home,  were  supplied  by 
the  wise  counsels  of  the  squire  of  Huntingdon. 

It  was  to  follow  his  friend,  as  much  as  at  the  call  of 
duty,  that  Master  Sparowe,  with  a  dozen  well-armed 
retainers,  joined  the  Parliament  army,  when  the  fierce 
religious  and  political  differences  between  the  king  and  the 
nation  broke  out  at  last  into  civil  war.  And  all  through 
the  long,  hot  summers  that  followed.with  their  marchings 
and  counter-marchings,  battles  and  sieges,  fruitless 
parleys  and  treaties,  Robert  Sparowe  was  always  to  the 
front.  A  man  after  the  General's  own  heart,  who 
talked  little  concerning  the  divine  right  of  Prelates  or 
Presbyters,  but  was  always  to  be  found  where  the  fight 
raged  hottest.  Such  as  he  were  to  be  counted  by 
thousands  in  the  new  modelled  army,  and  they  laid  the 
foundations  of  the  England  of  to-day. 

One  thing  was  wanting  to  Robert  Sparowe's  satisfac- 
tion. It  had  never  fallen  to  his  lot  actually  to  serve  under 
his  friend,  whose  rare  military  qualifications  he  had 
always  recognized.  His  wish  was  gratified  at  last.  In 
the  final  struggle  of  the  war,  the  terrible  battle  of  Naseby, 
Master  Sparowe  received  his  death  wound,  as  he  led  a 
company  of  pikemen  to  the  charge.  As  he  lay  dying, 
the  victorious  general  snatched  a  moment  to  press  his 
friend's  hand,  and  to  bid  him  farewell.  And  to  Robert 
Sparowe's  failing  ears  it  seemed  as  if  he  already  heard 
his  Lord's :  "Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful  servant." 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  fair  Mistress  Margaret, 
amid  such  strange  surroundings,  would  either  have  spent 
her  life  in  perpetual  opposition  to  her  rigidly  devout 
husband,  or  herself  have  imbibed  something  of  his  stern 
Puritanism.  Neither  one  nor  the  other  happened. 


62  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Bright  and  gay  she  was  when  her  husband  brought  her 
to  his  ancestral  home,  and  bright  and  gay  she  continued. 
She  passed  over  the  rough  places  of  life  with  fairy  foot- 
steps. She  sported  with  her  husband's  deep  and  earnest 
nature,  only  half-conscious  of  the  love  which  transfigured 
it.  As  to  her  religion,  it  was  made  up  for  the  most  part 
of  those  outward  shows  and  ceremonies,  and  the 
elaborate  ritual  which  were  so  abhorrent  to  the  Puritans. 
One  thing  only  she  hated  with  a  fierce,  deep  hatred — 
not  the  gloomy  fanatics  themselves — how  could  she  feel 
bitterly  towards  men  who  numbered  among  them  her 
husband  and  son  ? — but  the  cruel  creed  which  had 
dragged  that  husband  from  her,  and  had  left  her,  still  in 
the  bloom  of  life,  a  widow. 

The  boys  grew  up  amid  these  conflicting  circum- 
stances, and  were  influenced  by  them  in  opposite 
directions.  In  character,  Roger  was  his  father  over 
again.  Outwardly  cold  and  reserved,  but  capable  of 
strong,  deep  affection,  he  had  from  the  first  turned  with 
a  kind  of  instinct  to  Puritanism.  As  for  Walter  he 
seemed  to  be  the  very  counterpart  of  his  mother  in  his 
good  looks,  his  airy  disposition,  and  his  abhorrence  of 
everything  that  savoured  of  dullness.  Life  had  not 
tested  him  yet,  and  no  one,  least  of  all  himself,  knew  the 
real  stuff  of  which  he  was  made. 

But  Roger  and  Walter  were  not  the  only  children  to 
whom  Master  Sparowe  hoped  to  hand  down  his  name. 
A  year  after  their  marriage  Dame  Margaret  presented 
her  husband  with  a  little  daughter.  Robert  Sparowe, 
who  had  lost  several  sisters  in  early  life,  took  the  child 
home  to  his  great,  deep  heart,  and  lavished  a  love  upon 
her  which,  excellent  father  as  he  was,  he  never  evinced 
for  either  of  the  two  brothers  who  followed  her.  Between 
him  and  his  little  Mary — so  he  named  her  after  his 
mother — there  was  one  of  those  strong  affinities  often 
seen  between  mother  and  son,  more  rarely,  perhaps, 
uniting  father  and  daughter.  Mary  Sparowe  was  the 
pride  of  the  house.  She  was  beautiful  as  her  mother, 
devout  as  her  father ;  and  she  never  caused  him  but  one 
sorrow,  when  she  fell  madly  in  love,  as  he  had  done 


THE    CHIMNEY    RECESS.  63 

before  her,  and  gave  her  innocent  maiden's  heart  into 
the  keeping  of  the  handsome  young  Cavalier,  Ralph 
Wentworth. 

The  friendship  between  the  houses  of  Sparowe  and 
Wentworth  had  existed  for  200  years,  but  they  had  never 
been  united  by  marriage.  There  was  a  tradition  among 
them  that  no  such  alliance  could  ever  come  to  pass. 
Perhaps  a  touch  of  this  superstition,  though  he  always 
affected  to  despise  it,  mingled  with  Master  Sparowe's 
exceeding  abhorrence  of  a  Royalist  alliance  for  his 
daughter,  and  made  him  set  himself  so  earnestly  against 
it.  All  through  the  winter  of  1644-45,  while  the  two 
armies  were  in  quarters,  the  matter  was  hotly  debated. 
Much  communication,  in  spite  of  the  almost  impassable 
roads,  was  carried  on  between  the  Wentworths  in 
the  North,  and  the  Sparowes  in  the  East.  Then  the 
war  began  again,  a  combat  this  time  a  Uoutrance,  for  the 
new  modelled  Puritan  army  was  burning  for  action.  The 
head  of  both  families  were  called  to  the  field.  Robert 
Sparowe  parted  with  his  daughter,  not  in  anger — he 
had  never  been  angry  with  her  in  his  life — but  grieved 
and  heavy  at  heart.  Six  weeks  after,  his  dead  body 
was  carried  across  the  threshold  of  the  home  he  had 
left  in  the  fulness  of  health  and  vigour. 

By  some  mischance,  the  news  had  not  been  broken  to 
Mary  Sparowe.  She  came  in  hastily,  people  said  after- 
wards, unprepared  for  the  sight,  and  when  she  saw  her 
father's  corpse  she  fell  prostrate  on  it,  in  a  swoon  which 
lasted  for  hours.  That  fatal  thrust  at  Naseby  had  been 
her  death-wound  too.  She  never  rallied  from  the  shock. 
Through  the  summer  she  bore  her  grief  calmly,  almost 
cheerfully,  and  sustained  her  mother,  who  was  nearly 
prostrate  beneath  the  blow.  But,  as  the  months  went 
on,  she  grew  whiter  and  thinner.  When  she  knew  that 
she  was  dying,  she  sent  for  Ralph  Wentworth,  and  the 
lovers  took  a  last  farewell  of  each  other.  And  when 
the  first  frosts  of  winter  came,  she  fell  nipped  in  the 
bud,  like  the  late  roses  that  bloomed  outside  her  window. 
The  old  tradition  had  come  true;  the  houses  of  Sparowe 
and  Wentworth  were  not  to  be  united. 


64  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

These  sad  events  could  not  fail  to  produce  an  effect 
upon  the  boys.  The  deep,  religious  tone  of  Roger's 
character  was  strengthened,  and  to  it  was  joined  a 
reverential  feeling  towards  the  dead  father  and  sister, 
whose  names  he  scarcely  ventured  to  speak.  Much  of 
his  love  for  them  he  transferred  to  Ralph  Wentworth, 
who  had  been  so  closely  associated  with  the  family 
sorrows.  From  that  day  forth,  in  spite  of  his  rigid 
Puritanism,  he  cherished  for  him  an  overweening 
affection.  Walter,  who  was  a  boy  at  the  time,  naturally 
took  the  matter  more  lightly ;  and  Roger,  who  thought 
he  ought  now  to  be  in  the  place  of  a  father  to  his 
younger  brother,  was  often  troubled  with  the  idea  that, 
through  his  own  remissness,  the  dispensation  had  not 
been  sufficiently  blest  to  them  both. 

Notwithsanding  the  blight  this  double  sorrow  cast 
over  their  lives,  the  brothers  grew  up  as  healthy  and 
vigorous  as  boys  could  be.  Roger  himself,  with  all  the 
cares  of  a  county  magnate  prematurely  thrust  upon  him, 
often  forgot  his  troubles,  and  hunted  and  fished,  fenced, 
and  played  at  games  of  skill  with  his  brother  in  the 
courtyard,  as  if  he  had  never  known  a  sorrow.  The 
mere  living  in  such  a  splendid  place  as  the  house  in  the 
Ipswich  market  was  a  pleasure.  For  boys  who  were 
full  of  healthy  life,  and  brimming  over  with  energy, 
no  better  home  could  be  imagined.  The  rooms  were 
arranged  round  a  fine  courtyard,  which  was  enriched  with 
the  same  "  pargetting  "  work  as  the  front  of  the  house. 
On  one  side  of  this  yard,  on  the  open  space  of  a  blank 
wall,  some  country  artist  had  modelled  a  fat  cherub  in 
relief.  The  beauty  of  the  work  might  be  questioned ; 
the  solidity  of  it  no  one  could  deny.  The  cherub's  nose 
had  been  a  favourite  target  with  Roger  and  Walter  as 
children ;  but  though  they  had  shot  at  it  hundreds  of 
times,  it  remained  as  round  and  prominent  as  ever. 

Another  side  of  the  yard,  which  ran  parallel  to  a  lane 
at  right  angles  to  the  main  street,  afforded  them  still 
better  pastime.  Here  was  a  recess  roofed  over  by  the 
upper  storey,  and  in  this  recess,  in  wet  weather  or  in  fine, 
the  boys  might  generally  be  found  playing.  Though  the 


THE    CHIMNEY    RECESS.  65 

house  had  only  been  built  a  hundred  years  it  was  already 
full  of  traditions.  There  were  stories  of  money  hidden 
here,  of  secret  chambers  there,  of  mystery  and  marvel 
everywhere.  Yet,  often  as  the  boys  had  tried  to  test  the 
truth  of  these  tales,  and  to  discover  something  them- 
selves, they  had  never  succeeded  so  much  as  in  unloosing 
a  bolt,  or  dislodging  a  single  board. 

In  the  noble  wainscotted  room  that  looked  on  to  the 
small  piece  of  garden  ground  in  the  rear,  was  a  splendid 
chimney  piece.  Not  many  houses  in  the  town  could 
boast  of  such  a  fine  example  of  rich  carving.  The  family 
crest  and  coat  of  arms,  the  three  red  roses  won  at 
Hexham,  were  sculptured  in  the  wood  work,  and  just 
above  was  a  curious,  cube-shaped  projection,  behind 
which,  according  to  one  of  the  stories  current  in  the 
household,  money  or  some  treasure  was  concealed. 
Between  this  room  and  the  withdrawing  room  leading 
into  the  great  hall  were  two  large  cupboards,  formerly 
used  by  Mistress  Margaret  for  storing  her  preserves,  and 
the  distilled  waters  and  cordials  she  made  from  herbs 
and  flowers.  Of  late  years,  however,  she  had  ceased  to 
keep  such  things  here,  because  the  cupboards,  being 
built  into  the  huge  chimney  which  ran  up  between  the 
two  rooms,  were  apt  to  become  overheated,  and  to  spoil 
her  condiments.  Forthwith  the  boys  had  seized  upon 
them,  and  rare  hiding  places  they  made.  To  this  curious 
playground  they  annexed  the  wainscotted  room  which, 
in  consequence  of  the  sombreness  of  the  oak  carving, 
was  seldom  used  by  the  family,  and  turned  it  into  a 
passage  for  rushing  from  one  cupboard  to  another. 

During  the  course  of  a  wrestling  match,  Roger  had 
once  accidentally  flung  Walter  with  considerable  force 
against  the  wedge-like  projection  above  the  chimney. 
In  the  darkness  in  which  this  part  of  the  room  usually 
lay,  neither  of  the  boys  had  noticed  this  wedge  before. 
Now,  when  it  inflicted  a  pretty  deep  cut,  they  were  led 
to  examine  it  more  closely.  Much  they  wondered  at  it, 
and,  recalling  the  family  tradition,  they  tried,  with  all 
the  strength  of  their  active  fingers,  to  move  it,  but  in 
vain.  They  sounded  the  wall  on  either  side  till  their 

F 


66  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

knuckles  were  sore,  and  speedily  arrived  at  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  hollow,  but  all  their  efforts  to  displace 
the  least  fragment  of  carving  were  useless.  Their 
father  calling  them  at  this  moment,  the  subject  of  the 
chimney  piece  was  dismissed. 

For  the  time  at  least ;  but  the  matter  dwelt  in  Roger's 
tenacious  memory,  and  one  day,  about  a  year  before  his 
journey  to  London,  while  harmony  still  reigned  between 
him  and  Walter,  he  suddenly  proposed  that  they  should 
solve  the  mystery  of  the  carved  wedge.  The  brothers 
were  alone  in  the  wainscotted  room,  mending  their 
fishing  gear.  Mistress  Margaret  was  from  home  for  the 
day,  the  servants  were  all  busy  in  the  kitchen,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  house.  Roger,  a  grave,  careworn  man 
by  this  time,  bearing  his  full  share  of  the  troubles  and 
anxieties  which  distracted  his  unhappy  country,  proffered 
the  suggestion  more  for  the  sake  of  the  diversion  to  his 
own  thoughts,  than  with  any  idea  of  making  a  discovery. 
Walter,  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  a  fresh  adventure, 
joyfully  acquiesced. 

Boys  in  those  days  had  no  toys  or  tools,  except  such 
as  they  could  fashion  for  themselves.  Walter  and  Roger 
had  passed  through  youth  without  even  a  penknife ! 
Their  sole  weapon  was  a  small  dagger  of  rare  Spanish 
workmanship,  which  had  been  given  to  Roger  as  a  child, 
and  had  served  them  ever  since  for  all  manner  of 
mysterious  operations.  Finding  their  fingers  powerless 
to  loosen  the  wood  work,  Walter  fetched  this  dagger, 
and  they  managed,  after  various  attempts,  to  insert  it 
•where  the  wedge  was  fitted  into  the  chimney  piece. 

The  wood  yielded  more  easily  than  they  had  hoped, 
after  the  first.  The  wedge  removed  with  infinite  care, 
the  young  men  saw  within  a  small  recess  about  a  foot 
square.  It  was  empty,  absolutely  empty.  Not  so  much 
as  a  single  gold  coin,  an  ornament  or  jewel,  or  even  a 
paper  which  might  have  been  of  consequence,  could  they 
discover.  But  as  Roger  swept  his  hand  for  the  last 
time  round  the  interior,  to  satisfy  himself  that  the  recess 
contained  nothing,  his  fingers  came  with  some  force  into 
contact  with  a  projecting  knob  in  the  further  corner. 


THE    CHIMNEY    RECESS.  67 

Immediately  a  dull,  whirring  noise  was  heard,  succeeded 
by  a  slow,  creaking  sound,  as  of  a  heavy  door  turning 
slowly  on  its  hinges.  This  lasted  for  about  two  minutes, 
after  which  all  was  again  still.  The  brothers  held  their 
breath,  and  looked  at  each  other  in  amazement. 

"  Roger :  what  is  it  ?  "  whispered  Walter,  timidly,  who, 
in  spite  of  his  height  and  figure,  was  the  weaker-nerved 
of  the  two. 

"  I  know  not,  Walter,  more  than  thou  dost,"  answered 
Roger.  "  Something  hath  moved,  that  is  certain.  It 
may  be  that  I  touched  a  spring  concealed  in  the  hollow." 

"  But  didst  hear  the  noise  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  heard  it,"  answered  Roger.  "  Twas  the  spring, 
doubtless,  that  set  something  in  motion,  and  that  some- 
thing, whatever  it  be,  it  behoves  us  to  discover.  Come, 
Walter,  bestir  thyself.  This  mystery  shall  not  remain 
unsolved." 

Roger's  face  was  flushed  with  excitement  and  pleasure. 
Here  was  a  certain  thing  to  be  done,  always  a  delightful 
sensation  to  a  morbid  man. 

"  I  can  see  nought  here  which  hath  been  moved,"  he 
said,  going  round  the  room,  and  carefully  sounding  the 
oaken  wainscotting.  "Test  the  spring  again,  Walter, 
while  I  stand  and  listen  ;  we  may  haply  discover  from 
whence  the  sound  comes." 

But  the  spring  had  done  its  work,  whatever  it  was. 
Nothing  more  was  heard,  though  Walter,  emulating  his 
brother's  courage,  tried  again  and  again  to  make  it  snap. 
Failing  to  obtain  a  further  clue,  the  two  brothers  next 
consulted  together,  from  which  direction  the  whirring 
and  creaking  had  come,  each  maintaining  that  it  had 
originated  in  an  opposite  quarter. 

"  The  mystery  shall  not  baffle  us,"  cried  Roger,  eagerly. 
"  We  will  search  both  chambers.  Not  a  cranny  in  this 
or  the  withdrawing  room  shall  be  unvisited.  We  will  go 
thither  next.  Use  thine  eyes,  Walter,  and  let  nothing 
escape  thee." 

Now  it  had  chanced  that  Mistress  Margaret,  needing 
something  for  her  journey  from  one  of  the  deep  cup- 
boards already  mentioned,  which  filled  the  passage 


68  A  KINO'S  RANSOM. 

between  the  two  rooms,  the  door,  which  was  usually 
kept  fastened,  had  been  left  open.  Passing  to  the  other 
room,  Roger's  quick  eye  was  caught  by  a  black  shadow 
within  the  cupboard,  where  he  was  accustomed  to  see  a 
blank  wall. 

"  Something  is  changed  here,"  he  exclaimed,  flinging 
the  door  wide  open.  "  This  is  not  as  it  hath  always 
been.  Oh,  Walter,  see  I  " 

"  Brother,  what  is  it  ?  " 

Walter,  who  was  in  the  wainscotted  room,  still  fumb- 
ling over  the  spring  in  the  recess,  hurried  up,  and  peeped 
over  Roger's  shoulder.  The  young  men,  to  their  intense 
astonishment,  looked  down  into  the  black  mouth  of  a 
gap,  about  three  feet  square,  in  the  oaken  wainscotting 
of  which  the  wall  of  the  cupboard  was  formed.  A  small 
panel  had,  by  some  means,  which  they  immediately 
connected  with  the  spring  in  the  recess,  been  displaced, 
and  revealed,  as  far  as  they  could  see  through  so  narrow 
an  opening,  a  passage  about  2  feet  high.  The  two 
men  stood  staring  open-eyed  into  the  gap,  and  as  the 
light  was  behind  them,  their  own  shadows  made  the 
darkness  more  profound.  Walter  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Roger,  what  can  it  be,  this  great  black  hole  ?  "  he 
whispered. 

"  Faith,  brother,  I  know  not  yet,"  replied  Roger, 
smiling  at  Walter's  white  face.  A  secret  way  of  some 
sort,  doubtless.  'Tis  no  hole,  but  a  passage  that  thou 
seest,  and  whither  it  leads  we  will  presently  discover." 

"Oh,  Roger,  no!  Prithee  adventure  not  thyself  into  it." 

"  Assuredly  I  must,"  replied  Roger,  "  if  we  would  hope 
to  find  the  secret.  Thou  needst  not  to  come." 

"  Nay,  thou  shalt  not  go  alone,"  returned  Walter. 

"  Good,  then  let  us  set  forth.  But  first  we  must  have 
a  light.  Stay  thou  here  a  moment,  and  I  will  fetch  one.'* 

Usually  in  all  their  adventures,  which  were  mostly 
confined  to  hunting  and  fishing,  Walter  had  been  first 
and  foremost;  but  now  he  stood  leaning  against  the 
cupboard  door,  afraid  seemingly  to  move  a  step  alone. 
It  was  an  unknown  danger  from  which  he  shrank ;  but 
the  mysterious  character  of  the  enterprise  only  seemed 


THE    CHIMNEY    RECESS.  69 

to  lend  it  the  greater  charm  in  Roger's  eyes.  He  soon 
re-appeared,  carrying  a  torch,  tinder  box,  and  flint,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  stepping  into  the  passage  when  he 
again  stopped. 

"  This  road  may  lead  us  far,"  he  said,  "  and  perad- 
venture,  ere  we  return,  the  panel  will  be  closed  against 
us  by  some  mischance.  It  were  wiser  to  learn  the  secret 
of  it  before  we  venture  ourselves.  Do  thou  stand  here, 
Walter,  and  watch,  while  I  try  the  spring  yonder." 

"  Tis  time  wasted,"  answered  Walter.  "  The  spring 
doth  not  act.  It  failed  when  I  handled  it  a  while  ago. 
Whatever  the  secret,  it  lieth  not  there." 

"  Nay,  but  we  will  try,"  said  Roger,  cheerfully.  "  The 
spring  must  needs  have  somewhat  to  do  with  it." 

Mechanical  contrivances  in  those  days  were  neither 
common  nor  simple,  but  it  was  some  time  before  the 
brothers  were  able  to  understand  the  cumbrous  machinery. 
Although  apparently  separated  by  the  width  of  a  room 
and  two  doors,  the  recess  and  the  cupboard  were  really 
contiguous,  the  communication  between  them  passing 
through  the  chimney.  It  was  necessary  to  push  the 
panel  forward,  and  as  it  closed  with  a  click,  the  spring 
was  fastened.  A  light  pressure  upon  the  knob  in  the 
recess  was  then  sufficient  to  set  it  in  motion  again,  and 
to  make  the  panel  slide  back. 

Armed  with  the  torch,  and  closely  followed  by  Walter, 
Roger  crawled  into  the  dark  passage,  the  opening  being 
only  wide  enough  to  admit  a  man  on  his  knees.  He 
found  himself  almost  immediately  at  the  top  of  a  short 
flight  of  stairs.  By  the  damp  air  which  blew  in  their 
faces  when  they  reached  the  bottom,  the  brothers  knew 
at  once  that  they  were  in  a  vault. 

"  This  must  needs  be  the  crypt  below  the  house,"  said 
Roger.  "  I  have  often  heard  that  such  a  vault  was  dug 
out,  when  the  foundations  of  the  house  were  laid,  and  I 
have  marvelled  that  there  was  no  way  to  it.  Now, 
Walter,  look  well,  for  surely  there  must  be  a  path  from 
hence." 

The  crypt  was  small  and  low,  and  had  evidently  been 
built  only  under  the  oldest  part  of  the  house.  Apparently, 


70  A  KINO'S  RANSOM. 

too,  there  was  no  egress  except  by  the  stairs  down  which 
the  brothers  had  come.  They  were  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  the  search  in  despair,  when  Walter's  sharp 
eyes  lighted  upon  a  small  door,  so  curiously  hidden  in 
the  angle  of  the  wall  that  he  would  never  have  seen  it, 
had  not  the  light  of  the  torch  gleamed  for  a  moment 
upon  the  rusty  iron  fastenings.  Close  by,  hanging 
within  easy  reach,  was  a  huge  key,  and  both  key  and 
door  were  so  covered  with  cobwebs  that  Roger,  after  a 
hasty  examination,  declared  that  many  years  must  have 
elapsed  since  the  door  was  opened. 

Both  brothers  set  themselves  strenuously  to  force  the 
door,  a  doubly  difficult  manner,  since  it  opened  inwards. 
It  needed  their  combined  strength  to  make  any  im- 
pression, and  as  they  could  not  tell  how  near  the 
inhabited  part  of  the  house  might  be,  they  were  compelled 
to  be  exceedingly  cautious.  While  Roger  was  trying  to 
thrust  a  bolt  back  with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  he  was 
struck  with  the  curious  resemblance  in  the  structure  of 
the  door  to  some  other  door  he  had  seen,  but  where  he 
could  not  remember.  Probably  in  some  disused  portion 
of  the  house,  which  was  as  full  of  doors  and  passages  as 
any  old  house  could  be.  At  this  moment  a  truce  was 
put  to  his  speculations.  The  door  yielded  slowly  at  last, 
creaked  on  its  hinges,  and  finally  remained  half-way 
open,  disclosing  a  long  dark  passage,  leading  apparently 
into  outer  darkness. 

Down  this  passage  the  brothers  adventured  them- 
selves, without  a  moment's  hesitation.  An  enterprising 
spirit  had  seized  them  both,  and  neither  thought  of 
turning  back.  But  still  Roger,  always  cautious,  insisted 
on  going  slowly,  lest  a  hasty  movement  should  put  out 
the  torch,  and  threw  the  light  as  far  before  them  as 
possible. 

Ere  long  this  strange  underground  journey  became 
intensely  wearisome.  The  passage  seemed  to  extend 
before  them  as  they  walked.  It  proved  of  such  intermin- 
able length  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  solid  masonry 
of  which  it  was  built,  they  would  have  doubted  whether 
it  were  really  an  artificial  excavation,  or  whether  they 


THE   CHIMNEY   RECESS.  71 

had  not  wandered  into  some  natural  tunnel,  hollowed  in 
the  earth,  which  led  no  whither.  Fortunately  the 
passage  was  high  enough  to  admit  them  standing, 
though  they  could  not  walk  abreast  in  it.  Their  chief 
inconvenience  was  from  the  closeness  of  the  air. 

"  Roger,  I  can  go  no  further,"  said  Walter  at  last. 
41 1  am  like  to  be  stifled  here,  and  the  passage  hath  no 
end.  Prithee  let  us  return  with  all  speed,  before  we  die 
in  this  dreadful  place." 

"  Return  1 "  answered  Roger,  with  a  little  laugh,  that 
echoed  drearily  through  the  vault.  "  Nay,  Walter,  be 
not  so  faint-hearted.  Keep  up  thy  courage  like  a  man ; 
'tis  only  for  a  while.  There  must  be  some  outlet,  else 
wherefore  was  the  passage  built.  Methinks  this  very 
moment  I  felt  a  breath  of  pure  air  upon  my  face." 

The  breath  of  fresh  air  must  have  been  an  innocent 
device  of  Roger's  to  animate  his  brother's  drooping 
spirits.  They  walked  at  least  another  half  a  mile,  as  far 
as  he  could  compute,  Walter  protesting  and  lamenting 
all  the  way,  before  a  faint  glimmer  of  light  was  visible. 
At  the  same  instant  the  torch  went  out.  Walter,  who 
had  not  seen  the  light,  fell  forward,  and  clutched  his 
brother  by  the  arm. 

"  Forbear,  Roger,"  he  cried ;  "  hast  a  mind  to  kill  me 
outright?  I  tell  thee,  I  can  struggle  no  longer.  My 
legs  fail  me,  and  now  the  torch  is  out,  we  cannot  go  on. 
Come  back,  ere  it  be  too  late." 

"  But  there  is  the  light,"  cried  Roger,  gaily.  "  Look 
at  it,  Walter.  The  danger  is  greater  behind  than  before. 
Now  or  never,  we  must  on." 

A  few  minutes  more  of  stumbling  wearily  along — for 
Roger,  despite  his  cheerfulness,  was  almost  as  exhausted 
as  Walter — brought  them  to  the  end  of  the  passage. 
The  light,  which  had  been  growing  brighter  at  every 
step,  suddenly  flashed  upon  them  with  a  brilliancy  more 
vivid  than  day  itself,  through  a  small  opening.  Wonder- 
ful was  the  scene  that  met  their  eyes !  Emerging  from 
the  darkness  which  had  so  long  surrounded  them,  Roger 
could  see  nothing  at  first  but  a  blaze  of  light,  behind 
the  pillar  which  partly  concealed  the  opening.  By  and 


72  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

bye  he  distinguished  the  soft  shimmer  of  wax  tapers, 
flowers,  rich  colours,  and  above  them  the  graceful 
spring  of  Gothic  arches.  Already  half  suffocated  by  the 
close  air  of  the  passage,  he  was  nearly  choked  by  a 
whiff  of  strong,  subtle  fragrance,  that  was  suddenly 
borne  to  him. 

His  senses,  as  well  as  his  eyes,  were  dazzled  for  a 
moment.  Then  at  last  he  saw  clearly  before  him  a 
small,  brilliantly  lighted  chapel.  The  altar  was  hung 
with  gold  embroidery,  and  adorned  with  flowers  and 
ornaments.  An  exquisitely  chased  crucifix  hung  above 
it,  and  the  walls  of  the  chancel  were  covered  with 
pictures.  In  the  body  of  the  church  were  about  a  dozen 
men  and  women,  some  kneeling,  some  standing,  but  all 
absorbed  in  devotion.  An  acolyte  in  his  white  robes, 
swinging  a  censer,  stood  close  to  the  brothers  fortunately 
with  his  back  to  them  ;  and  a  tonsured  priest,  splendidly 
robed,  was  kneeling  on  the  steps  of  the  alter.  After  a 
few  moments  he  rose,  murmured  a  few  words  and  raised 
a  golden  chalice  above  his  head.  Immediately  a  little 
bell  sounded,  and  the  whole  congregation  fell  on  their 
knees.  Roger  Sparowe,  the  Puritan,  had  witnessed  the 
Elevation  of  the  Host  in  High  Mass  ! 

The  silence  which  succeeded  was  so  absolute  that  the 
faintclickof  the  censer,  and  the  stifled  sobs  of  the  kneeling 
women  were  distinctly  audible.  Then  the  priest  began 
to  chant  in  a  monotonous  undertone.  He  rose  from  his 
knees,  bowed  to  the  altar,  and  turning  to  the  little 
congregation,  raised  his  hands  over  them  in  the  attitude 
of  blessing.  At  the  same  moment  his  face,  for  the  first 
time,  came  full  into  view.  As  the  light  from  the  tapers 
fell  upon  it,  Roger  leaned  forward,  curious  to  see  what 
manner  of  man  it  was  who  dared  to  affront  the  law  with 
the  Popish  idolatry  of  the  Mass.  The  face  was  strangely 
familiar.  He  saw  before  him — that  exemplary  minister 
of  the  Word — Mr.  Obadiah  Sturges,  of  Ipswich  ! 

Breathless  with  astonishment  and  horror,  the  young 
man  staggered  back  into  the  passage,  dragging  his 
brother  with  him.  This  involuntary  movement  saved 
him  from  discovery.  For  at  the  first  sight  of  the 


THE    CHIMNEY    RECESS.  73 

priest's  face,  Roger  could  not  forbear  an  exclamation 
which  had  attracted  notice,  and  had  he  not  shrunk  back, 
his  presence  must  have  been  detected. 

"  What  ails  thee,  brother  ? "  whispered  Walter. 
"  Thou  hast  surmounted  the  dangers  of  the  passage — 
art  afraid  of  this  to  which  it  has  led  ?  'Tis  the  Catholic 
chapel  at  Alnesbourne,"  he  continued.  "  Some  pious 
ancestors  of  ours  doubtless  built  this  secret  way  to  it 
from  our  house,  in  the  old  days  when  the  Priory  stood 
here." 

"  But  the  priest !  the  priest !  "  gasped  Roger.  "  Didst 
see  the  priest  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  saw  him,  as  thou  didst,"  answered  Walter, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  "  What  of  him  ?  Catholic 
chapels  must  be  served  by  priests,  I  trow,  as  well  as 
churches  of  our  own  religion.  And  a  bold  man  he 
must  be,  to  take  his  life  in  his  hand,  and  say  the  Mass." 
.  "Then  thou  didst  not  see?  'Twas  Master  Sturges 
himself." 

Walter  burst  into  a  mocking  laugh,  that  echoed 
horribly  through  the  vault.  "  Master  Obadiah  Sturges ! 
Roger,  I  marvel  that  thou  canst  let  thine  eyes  deceive 
thee  thus.  They  were  dazzled  with  the  light.  A  chance 
resemblance  hath  misled  thee.  How  could  it  be  Master 
Obadiah  ?  " 

"  It  was  Master  Obadiah  himself,  and  none  other," 
protested  Roger.  "  'Twas  no  chance  resemblance,  I 
would  stake  my  life  upon  it." 

This  whispered  conservation  had  passed  between 
them,  while  Roger  was  busy  with  the  laborious  process 
of  striking  a  light.  They  had  gradually  retreated  into 
the  passage,  until  the  tapers  of  the  chapel  glimmered 
feebly  in  the  distance.  As  Roger  uttered  the  last  words, 
the  tinder  flared  up,  and  he  caught  sight  of  his  brother's 
face,  with  a  sinister  expression  on  it  he  had  never  seen 
before.  Walter  turned  hastily  away,  but  it  was  too  late. 

"  Walter,  what  means  that  look  ? "  asked  Roger, 
stopping  abruptly  in  the  narrow  passage,  and  making 
the  torch  light  play  before  him.  "  Dost  thou  know 
anything  of  this  business  ?  " 


74  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

11  Nought,  brother,"  answered  Walter,  uneasily.  "  How 
should  I  know  more  than  thou,  since  I  have  never  seen 
this  way  nor  the  chapel  before  ?  " 

"  But  Master  Obadiah  ?  On  thine  honour  as  a 
Sparowe,  didst  thou  never  hear  of  him  before  as  a 
priest  ?  " 

There  was  silence.  Walter  tried  to  pass,  and  continue 
the  journey,  but  Roger  barred  the  way. 

"  And  what  if  I  did  know  ?  "  he  said,  sullenly,  at  last. 
"  Thou  art  so  stern,  so  strict,  Roger.  Thou  wilt  have 
every  one  as  fierce  a  fanatic  as  thyself." 

"  Thou  didst  know  ?  Thou  hast  lied  to  me  ?  "  asked 
Roger,  breathlessly. 

"  Herein  thou  canst  not  blame  me,"  returned  his 
brother,  stubbornly.  "  The  matter  was  no  concern  of 
mine.  'Twas  told  me  under  an  oath  of  secrecy,  which 
thou,  of  all  men,  wouldst  not  have  me  break." 

"  Thou  hast  no  right  to  pledge  thyself  to  conceal  it." 

"  An  I  had  spoken,  wouldst  thou  or  any  other  man 
have  believed  me?"  asked  Walter.  "And  wherefore 
should  I  speak,  and  betray  a  good  man  who  trusted  me  ?  " 

"  A  good  man  ! "  Roger  shivered  at  the  words.  To 
him,  as  to  all  his  fellow  Puritans,  every  Papist  was  an 
incarnation  of  Antichrist ;  yet  his  own  brother  was 
taking  the  part  of  a  man  who,  to  the  deadly  sin  of  Popery, 
added  the  yet  deadlier  sin  of  deceit. 

The  journey  back  to  the  house  was  accomplished  in 
silence.  When  they  reached  the  wainscotted  room,  and 
all  had  been  replaced  as  before,  Roger  turned  to  his 
brother.  "  Thou  hast  deceived  me.  I  can  never  trust 
thee  again,"  he  said,  slowly  and  sternly ;  and  therewith 
he  quitted  the  room,  and  the  brothers  did  not  meet 
again  for  days. 

From  that  time,  the  dislike  Roger  had  always  felt  for 
the  Reverend  Obadiah  Sturges  was  increased  to  loathing* 
But  he  dared  not  openly  accuse  him.  The  story  he  had 
to  tell  was  so  improbable  that,  as  Walter  said,  he  could 
not  hope  to  obtain  credit  for  it,  unless  he  made  a  fult 
confession  of  the  means  by  which  he  had  obtained  his 
knowledge.  This  would  compel  him  to  divulge  a  secret 


THE   CHIMNEY   RECESS.  75 

which  he  and  Walter  seemed  tacitly  agreed  to  keep  to 
themselves.  Even  Mistress  Margaret  was  not  told  of 
the  adventure,  which  argued,  perhaps,  more  knowledge 
of  her  character  than  she  would  have  given  her  sons 
credit  for. 

So  Roger  waited,  and  held  his  peace,  though  it  was 
pain  and  grief  to  him.  From  that  day  forth  a  coolness 
sprang  up  between  the  brothers,  which  increased  until 
it  culminated  in  an  open  breach,  the  day  of  Walter's 
departure. 


76 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE    NINTH     GABLE. 


TIME  hung  heavily  on  Roger's  hands  after  Walter  had 
gone.  He  missed  his  brother  more  than  he  cared  to 
confess,  for  Walter,  though  moody  and  silent  with  him, 
was  almost  as  gay  and  cheerful  a  presence  in  the  house 
as  Mistress  Margaret.  With  his  horses  and  dogs,  his 
hunting  and  fishing,  and  it  must  be  confessed  his  bouts 
of  drinking,  he  occupied  a  far  larger  space  in  the  family 
than  of  right  belonged  to  him.  When  the  young  squire, 
as  he  was  called,  was  at  home,  he  was  always  wanting 
someone  to  do  something  for  him.  In  spite,  however,  of 
the  constant  attention  he  demanded,  he  was  far  more 
popular  with  the  household  than  Roger,  who  gave 
trouble  to  no  one,  cared  not  what  he  ate,  was  abstemious 
in  drink,  and  had  almost  given  up  hunting  since  the  hurt 
to  his  foot. 

But  for  a  practical  clear-sighted  man  like  Roger  there 
was  always  plenty  of  work.  The  invasion  of  the  King  of 
Scots  had  fallen  at  the  worst  time  of  the  year.  To  take 
men  from  their  homesteads  in  the  middle  of  August, 
was  to  risk  the  loss  of  the  fine  harvest  which  now  lay 
ripening  in  the  fields.  The  Scots  army  could  afford  to 
make  this  inroad,  the  farmer  folk  complained.  In  their 
bleak,  inhospitable  climate  the  harvest  could  not  be 
carried  home  for  another  month,  but  agriculture  in 
England  was  sure  to  suffer.  Nevertheless,  so  absolute 
was  Cromwell's  power  over  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen, 
and  so  fierce  their  hatred  of  the  Stuarts,  that  the  Iron- 
side soldiers,  almost  to  a  man,  put  away  their  sickles, 
took  down  sword  and  pike,  kissed  their  wives  and  bairns, 
and  went  forth  "  to  do  battle  for  the  Lord." 

Those  who  stayed  at  home  could  not  be  accused  of 
idleness.  The  task  of  governing  a  town,  now  divided 


THE    NINTH    GABLE.  77 

between  the  vestries  and  the  central  authorities,  was  in 
the  seventeenth  century  undertaken  by  the  gentlemen 
who  lived  in  or  near  it.  They  looked  upon  it  as  their 
indefeasible  right  and  duty,  and  accomplished  an  amaz- 
ing amount  of  administrative  work.  The  higher  the 
rank,  the  heavier  the  responsibility.  Far  from  being 
regarded  as  drudgery,  the  task  of  helping  to  govern  his 
fellow-citizens  was  an  honour  from  which  no  gentleman 
shrank.  But  the  war  had  wrought  such  havoc  among 
the  natural  leaders  of  the  people,  some  of  whom  were 
dead,  some  in  exile,  and  some  forced  to  hide,  that  the 
work  fell  heavily  on  the  few  that  remained.  Of  these, 
too,  no  small  proportion  were  obliged,  as  members  of 
the  apparently  illimitable  Long  Parliament,  to  spend 
half  the  year  at  Westminster. 

Bailiffs,  portmen,  and  chamberlains  at  Ipswich,  had 
their  hands  full.  Roger  himself  was  already  portman 
and  justice,  and  was  spoken  of  as  likely  to  be  elected 
bailiff  shortly.  He  was  never  idle ;  and  had  hard  work 
been  a  panacea  for  his  cares  and  troubles,  he  would 
soon  have  made  an  end  of  them. 

But  everyone  seemed  to  share  his  gloom.  As  August 
passed,  the  anxiety  for  news  from  the  front  became 
intense.  In  those  days,  when  telegrams,  newspapers,  and 
war  correspondents  did  not  exist,  the  knowledge  of 
events  transpired  slowly,  often  months  after  they  had 
taken  place.  Villages  and  towns  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
seat  of  war  naturally  heard  the  result  of  a  battle  imme- 
diately, and  the  news  was  usually  carried,  as  quick  as 
fugitives  could  carry  it,  to  London.  Garbled  accounts 
circulated  among  the  places  on  the  line  of  march  or 
retreat,  but  the  bulk  of  the  country  towns  remained  for 
weeks  in  ignorance.  Unless  some  man  of  note  was 
fortunate  enough  to  receive  a  news-letter,  the  contents 
of  which  were  immediately  communicated  to  all  in  the 
neighbourhood,  the  people  in  the  rural  districts  had  no 
chance  of  learning  speedily  the  issue  of  a  contest. 

One  afternoon,  Roger,  who  had  ridden  out  that  morn- 
ing to  a  village  at  some  distance,  to  settle  a  dispute 
about  a  piece  of  land,  and  had  been  in  the  saddle  since 


78  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

daybreak,  betook  himself,  by  way  of  rest  and  refresh- 
ment of  mind,  to  a  book.  As  usual,  the  hospitalities  of 
the  house  at  the  mid-day  meal  had  been  bountiful. 
Several  of  the  Common  Councilmen  had  partaken  of, 
and  had  not  failed  to  do  justice  to,  Mistress  Margaret's 
excellent  cheer.  There  was  not  much  drinking  at  the 
meal,  but  in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  the  time, 
the  guests  adjourned,  as  soon  as  it  was  over,  to  a  neigh- 
bouring tavern,  there  to  drink  themselves  as  drunk  as 
they  pleased. 

Courtesy  required  their  host  to  accompany  them. 
But  Roger,  by  temperament,  early  training,  and  religion, 
disliked  such  convivialities.  His  father's  moderation 
had  been  a  jest  and  a  taunt  with  the  older  men  in 
Ipswich,  who  got  druuk,  as  a  matter  of  course,  every 
day  of  their  lives.  Among  the  town  airs  dainty  Mistress 
Margaret  brought  with  her  from  London,  and  which 
gave  great  offence  to  sturdy  country  folk,  was  reckoned 
a  horror  of  drinking  parties,  where  it  was  the  fashion 
for  women  as  well  as  men  to  appear.  Her  husband's 
rigid  prohibition  to  abstain  from  them  was  not  needed. 
On  both  sides,  therefore,  Roger  inherited  a  love  of  tem- 
perance, almost  unheard  of  in  his  days,  and  that  made 
him  the  subject  for  much  wonder,  and  many  gibes  among 
his  friends. 

Walter  drank  freely,  like  others.  Considering  the  con- 
vivial tastes  of  the  Royalists,  the  wonder  would  have 
been,  if  he  had  not  indulged  in  deep  and  frequent 
potations.  But  even  he  was  a  constant  rather  than  a 
hard  drinker.  Not  more,  perhaps,  than  once  a  week 
were  the  servants  obliged  to  carry  their  young  master  to 
his  bed,  whereas  his  boon  companions  were  seldom  or 
never  sober. 

When  other  men  drank,  Roger,  as  now,  occupied  him- 
self with  a  book.  A  country  squire  who  read  was 
almost  as  strange  an  anomaly  as  a  country  squire  who 
did  not  drink.  And  Roger's  studies  did  not  wholly  con- 
sist, as,  according  to  his  Puritan  profession  they  should 
have  done,  of  the  Bible,  and  works  of  divinity.  He 
knew  his  Shakespeare  and  Ben  Johnson  by  heart,  and 


THE    NINTH    GABLE.  79 

Spencer's  "  Fairie  Queen,"  and  the  plays  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan dramatists  took  the  place  of  lighter  literature. 

His  usual  place  of  retirement  was  a  noble  room  above 
the  hall,  with  richly  carved  ceiling,  and  quaint  oriel 
windows  set  in  deep  recesses.  The  walls  were  hung 
with  portraits  of  the  Sparowe  ancesters,  among  which 
one  or  two  fine  Vandykes  had  recently  been  placed,  and 
here  and  there  an  exquisite  Italian  master-piece.  The 
picture  gallery,  or  summer  drawing-room,  as  it  was  also 
called,  was  over  the  entrance,  and  ran  the  whole  length 
of  the  house.  It  was  not  often  used,  except  for  ban- 
quets, christenings,  marriages,  and  other  state  occasions. 
The  builder  of  the  house  had  doubtless  hoped  that  the 
Sparowe  family  would,  in  the  course  of  a  few  genera- 
tions, multiply  so  greatly  that  the  room  would  be  in 
constant  requisition.  Now  the  household  had  dwindled 
to  Dame  Margaret  and  her  two  sons,  and  the  splendid 
banqueting  hall  was  never  entered,  except  by  Roger,  who 
had  selected  one  of  the  deep  bay  windows  as  a  place  for 
his  books.  The  great  room  was  the  coolest  part  of  the 
house  this  sultry  September  day,  and  here  he  settled 
himself  to  enjoy  his  rare  leisure. 

His  thoughts  soon  wandered  from  the  book.  Instead 
of  the  big,  black  letters,  he  saw  a  tender  face  framed  in 
golden-brown  hair,  and  a  mouth  that  seemed  to  melt 
with  sweetness.  Of  late,  fancy  had  often  played  him 
this  trick.  He  had  grown  indifferent  to  his  books,  and, 
when  he  seemed  to  be  reading,  was  sometimes  only 
plunged  in  pleasant  meditation.  Perhaps  that  was  one 
reason  why  he  betook  himself  so  often  to  this  secluded 
corner,  where  alone  in  the  great  house  he  was  free  from 
disturbance.  Once  at  his  books  there  was  scarcely  a 
servant  in  the  house  who,  from  sheer  awe,  would  have 
ventured  to  interrupt  the  young  master's  studies. 

One  person,  however  was  a  privileged  intruder.  A 
brown,  wizened  face  was  presently  put  in  at  the  door, 
and  immediately  after  a  little  old  woman  in  a  maid's 
gown,  with  a  wide  white  apron  and  snowy  kerchief,  walked 
into  the  room.  Over  her  head  she  wore  a  second  ker- 
chief, covering  the  scanty  grey  hair  which  contrasted 


80  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

strangely  with  her  pretty  pink  cheeks.  At  first  she 
looked  about  her  in  perplexity,  not  seeing  Roger,  who 
was  hidden  in  the  oriel. 

"  I  am  here,  Joan.  What  would'st  thou  ?  "  he  asked 
at  last. 

She  started  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  "  Ah,  thou  art 
there,  squire,"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  high,  thin  treble. 
"  The  fairies  have  not  stolen  thee  yet,  then,  though  I 
dreamt  it  yesternight.  Dear,  my  master,  I  know  not 
how  to  bear  thee  from  my  sight,  since  Master  Walter 
hath  gone  to  the  war,  some  evil  will  light  upon  the 
house,  and  when  I  see  thee  not,  my  heart  faileth  me." 

"Good  Joan,"  said  Roger,  with  a  smile,  "what  evil 
dost  thou  think  is  like  to  befall  us.  Have  we  not  had 
trouble  enow.  The  day  that  my  father  died  evil  came 
upon  us,  enough  to  satisfy  even  thee." 

"  To  satisfy  me !  Hear  to  the  lad !  'Twould  a'  seem 
as  though  I  desired  thy  hurt,  I  who  would  guard  every 
hair  of  thy  head." 

"  Nay,  I  say  not  so,"  answered  Roger,  "  but  thou  art 
ever  foreboding  evil.  Prithee,  Joan,  look  more  brightly 
upon  the  fortunes  of  our  house." 

Joan  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  Alas,  poor  lad  !  "  she 
said.  "  Thou  speakest  of  thy  father,  but  know  that  by 
that  same  token  they  " — she  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
with  a  frightened  look — "  will  work  further  mischief 
upon  thee.  Did  I  not  dream  three  nights  following, 
that  I  saw  a  corpse  ?  and  on  the  third  day,  was  not  thy 
father's  corpse  carried  in  by  the  same  way  that  he  went 
forth  ? " 

"  Joan,"  said  Roger,  gravely,  "  a  truce  to  these  idle 
tales,  as  thou  art  a  God-fearing  woman." 

"Talk  not  to  me  of  being  a  God-fearing  woman, 
Master  Roger.  Idle  tales,  quotha !  Why,  thou  didst 
not  see  as  I  did,  that  thy  brother,  when  he  went  from 
hence,  crossed  the  threshold  with  his  left  foot  first. 
Doth  that  not  bode  evil,  hey  ?  And  tho'  I  cried  after 
him  to  return,  and  set  it  right,  he  would  not  heed  me. 
Whereby  I  know  full  well  that  I  shall  never  see  my 
bonny  boy  again." 


THE    NINTH    GABLE.  81 

"  Hast  thou  come  hither,"  asked  Roger,  seeing  it  vain 
to  reason  with  her,  "  only  to  pour  out  these  lamentations 
to  me  ?  Methinks  thou  mightest  have  chosen  a  more 
convenient  season,  and  not  have  thus  disturbed  me." 

"  I  disturb  thee,  master !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  look 
of  horror.  "  How  canst  thou  say  that  of  me  ?  I  am 
too  much  afeared  of  thee  when  thou  art  at  thy  books. 
Who  knows  if  the  writing  of  them  be  not  of  the  devil  ?  " 
Joan  began  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  then  checked 
herself,  remembering  her  Puritan  principles.  "'Twas 
the  mistress  I  sought,"  she  continued.  "  The  yarn  mer- 
chant hath  come,  and  would  have  speech  of  her." 

"  Then  why  didst  not  say  it  before,  and  save  me  this 
long  parley  ?  Thou  wilt  find  her  upstairs ;  she  hath  been 
there  an  hour  or  more." 

"  In  the  loft  ?  "  said  Joan,  with  a  frightened  air.  "Alas, 
master  thither  I  dare  not  adventure  myself.  Go  thou 
for  me,  and  beseech  her  to  come ;  the  man  is  in  haste." 

With  a  laugh  at  the  old  servant's  many  superstitions, 
Roger  laid  his  book  aside,  opened  a  small  door  at  the 
hither  end  of  the  room,  and  sprang  lightly  up  the  carved 
oaken  stairs  with  which  it  communicated.  The  upper 
floor  of  the  house  consisted  of  one  long  loft  or  attic, 
the  roof  formed  by  the  four  front  gables,  and  the 
windows  set  in  the  wall,  above  the  oriels  which  presented 
so  picturesque  an  appearance  from  without.  It  was 
scarcely  a  room,  being  merely  the  space  left  between 
the  ceiling  of  the  picture  gallery  below,  and  the  actual 
roof  of  the  house.  There  were  hardly  six  yards  of  wall 
which  were  not  broken  by  some  oaken  beam,  recess,  or 
jutting  projection,  and  the  ceiling  varied  in  height  from 
five  feet  to  twelve. 

Such  as  it  was,  with  its  fantastic  nooks  and  corners, 
it  seemed  the  very  ideal  of  a  play  room.  A  better  place 
for  hide-and-seek  was  not  to  be  found  out  of  Arcadia. 
One  might  lie  hidden  there  for  days,  Roger  and  Walter 
had  often  wistfully  suggested  to  each  other,  as  they 
eyed  the  loft  from  the  street  or  the  courtyard.  The  very 
sun,  as  it  streamed  in,  now  at  one  window,  now  at 
another,  sported  mischievously  with  the  light  and  shadow 


82  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

it  threw  into  the  room.  But  the  sunshine  was  the  only 
visitor;  the  long  loft  was  forbidden  ground  to  the 
Sparowe  household.  Boys  were  then,  in  practice  as  well 
as  theory,  in  strict  subjection  to  their  parents,  and  when 
Robert  Sparowe  briefly  enjoined  upon  his  sons  never 
to  set  foot  in  the  upper  floor  of  the  Old  House,  they 
obeyed  his  command  in  silence,  without  attempting  to 
discover  the  reason  of  it. 

Naturally  a  sense  of  mystery,  fostered  no  doubt  by 
the  strict  secrecy  the  head  of  the  house  maintained  con- 
cerning it,  grew  up  around  the  room.  The  prohibition 
had  of  course  ceased  to  exist  long  ago.  As  master  of 
the  house,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  Roger  from 
exploring  every  nook  and  cranny  of  it,  had  he  so  pleased. 
Dame  Margaret  was  certainly  not  one  to  hinder  him. 
But  Roger  held  himself  bound  by  his  father's  wishes, 
none  the  less  when  that  father  was  no  longer  there  to 
enforce  them.  He  had  no  desire  to  penetrate  the  secret 
of  the  loft,  if  indeed  there  were  any.  His  one  attempt 
to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  house  had  resulted  in  so 
lamentable  a  discovery,  that  his  love  of  adventure  was 
quenched.  During  the  six  years  which  had  elapsed 
since  his  father's  death,  he  had  perhaps  not  set  foot  a 
dozen  times  in  the  loft. 

He  was  surprised,  as  he  entered,  at  not  seeing  his 
mother.  He  called  her  name  softly,  half  afraid  of  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice.  Looking  round  him  carefully, 
his  eye  was  caught  by  a  door  at  the  further  end,  which 
he  did  not  remember  to  have  seen  before.  He  made  for 
it  immediately,  and  found  that  it  communicated  with  a 
small  inner  loft,  built  over  the  fourth  gable  of  the 
house.  At  the  first  glance  this  loft  appeared  to  be 
lighted  by  two  windows,  but  closer  examination  showed 
that  one  was  not  a  window,  but  a  glazed  door,  set  in  the 
thickness  of  the  wall.  Opening  it,  Roger,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, stepped  out  on  to  the  wide  leads  over  the  projecting 
oriel  windows  below.  It  was  a  minute's  work  to  follow 
this  aerial  pathway  round  two  sides  of  the  house.  It 
terminated  abruptly  against  one  of  the  huge  stacks  of 
square,  red-brick  chimneys ;  and  Roger,  as  he  stood  for 


THE    NINTH    GABLE.  83 

a  moment  looking  down  into  the  courtyard  far  below, 
and  curiously  examining  the  gables  and  chimneys  from 
this  novel  point  of  view,  could  not  help  thinking  how 
easy  it  might  be  to  swing  one's  self  down  among  them. 
For  a  man  hiding  for  his  life,  no  better  place  of  con- 
cealment could  be  imagined  than  the  loft  with  this 
absolutely  unexpected  mode  of  egress. 

And  now  a  curious  thing  happened.  Straight  across 
from  where  he  was  standing,  running  at  right  angles  to 
the  main  block  of  buildings,  which  fronted  the  street, 
Roger's  attention  was  attracted  by  a  ninth  gable.  He 
had  never  seen,  or  at  least  had  never  noticed  that  gable 
before.  Whether  it  were  visible  from  another  point, 
Roger,  who  habitually  used  his  eyes  no  more  than  any 
other  careless  observer,  could  not  say.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  gable  was  new  to  him,  and  he  at  once  began  to 
try  and  connect  it  with  some  room  in  the  house. 
But  he  could  not  account  for  it  in  any  way,  though 
he  thought  he  knew  the  whole  plan  of  the  building  by 
heart. 

Pleasantly  interested  in  his  new  discovery,  he  returned 
to  the  loft  in  a  gayer  mood  than  he  had  known  for  many 
days.  His  mother  was  there,  though  how  she  had 
entered  the  room  in  his  absence,  when  he  was  positive 
it  had  been  empty  when  he  left,  he  was  puzzled  to  know. 
In  her  hand  she  held  a  key,  large  and  cumbersome  as 
keys  usually  were.  It  was  not  attached  to  her  house- 
wife's bunch,  and  Roger,  the  moment  he  cast  eyes  on  it, 
knew  he  had  never  seen  that  key  before.  She  uttered  a 
faint  scream  on  seeing  her  son. 

"  Thou  here,  Roger  ?  "  she  asked,  hurriedly.  "  How 
hast  thou  dared  to  follow  me  ?  and  whence  comest 
thou  now  ? 

"  Prithee,  mother  mine,  chide  me  not,"  he  answered, 
gaily.  "  I  did  but  follow  thee  to  tell  thee  that  the  yarn 
merchant  desires  speech  of  thee  ?  " 

"  What  hast  thou  seen  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  look  of 
terror."  "Ah,  luckless  boy;  tell  me  where  thou  hast 
been  ?  " 

"  On  the  roof,"  he  replied.     "  I  knew  not  till  now  that 


84  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

there  was  a  way  round  it.  Nay,  look  not  so  fearful, 
mother.  Thou  canst  see  that  no  harm  hath  befallen  me. 
My  head  is  steady,  and  the  pathway  was  broad." 

Contrary  to  her  usual  habit,  Mistress  Margaret, 
without  uttering  a  word,  turned  to  lead  the  way  down- 
stairs, but  Roger  had  no  mind  to  leave  this  delightfully 
mysterious  place  without  endeavouring  to  solve  the 
enigma  of  the  gable.  He  stopped  as  he  passed  a 
window  which  looked  down  into  the  courtyard  below. 
.  "  One  strange  thing  I  saw  up  there,  mother,"  he 
said — "  a  certain  gable  which  I  had  not  perceived  before. 
Methought  I  knew  every  corner  of  our  house,  but  this 
gable  hath  baffled  me.  Canst  thou  tell  me  over  what 
room  it  stands  ?  " 

"  I  know  nought  of  gables,"  answered  Mistress 
Margaret,  pettishly,  as  she  moved  to  the  door.  "  Come, 
Roger." 

"  Stay  but  a  moment,  and  let  me  set  my  wits  to  work. 
Why,  mother,  there  it  stands,  that  self-same  thing. 
Why  didst  thou  not  tell  me  ?  " 

At  his  left  hand,  so  near  that  he  could  almost  have 
touched  it,  rose  the  gable  which  had  puzzled  Roger. 
But  the  sight  of  it  only  whetted  his  curiosity.  For  now 
that  he  was  close  to  it,  Roger  felt  certain  that  it 
corresponded  to  no  part  of  the  house  that  he  knew  of. 

"  Some  room  lieth  hard  by  here,  beneath  that  gable," 
he  said,  turning  to  his  mother.  "  Canst  thou  not 
explain  it  ?  Surely  the  loft  goeth  no  further  than  this 
wall,  and  yet,  to  see  that  gable  .  .  .  some  building  must 
be  beneath  it." 

But  to  his  astonishment,  instead  of  answering  him, 
Mistress  Sparowe  dropped  the  bunch  of  keys  at  her 
girdle,  with  which  she  was  nervously  toying,  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Mercy,  Roger,  mercy,"  she  sobbed.  "  Thou  art  so 
cold  and  stern,  like  thy  father,  save  that  he  was  ever 
gentle  with  me.  Look  not  at  me  with  those  cruel  eyes. 
I  have  done  no  wrong." 

"  Wrong !  Nay,  mother,  who  held  thee  blameworthy  ?" 
answered  Roger,  much  puzzled.  "  I  sought  but  to  know 


THE    NINTH     GABLE.  85 

the  mystery  of  this  gable,  and  straightway  thou  weepest, 
and  dost  accuse  of  cruelty." 

"  Thou  art  cruel  to  me,"  she  cried,  plaintively.  "  Thou 
dost  suspect  me,  and  sit  on  judgment  on  thy  mother, 
as  no  son  ought  to  do." 

"  I  judge  thee,  mother  ?  How,  prithee,  can  that  be  ?  A 
thing  here  hath  made  me  curious,  and  since  thou  canst 
tell  me  nought  concerning  it,  it  followeth  that  thou  dost 
not  thyself  know  all  the  secrets  of  the  house." 

"There  is  no  secret,  no  mystery,"  sobbed  Dame 
Margaret.  "  What  wouldest  thou  know  ?  Hast  thou  no 
compassion  ?  Nay,  I  understand  thee  now.  It  pleaseth 
thee  to  see  thy  mother  in  tears — thus." 

And  to  Roger's  horror,  who  had  a  man's  dislike  of  a 
scene,  his  mother  sank  down  on  her  knees  before  him. 
In  vain  he  raised  and  kissed  her  tenderly,  assuring  her 
that  nothing  could  be  further  from  his  wish  than  to  give 
her  pain.  At  last,  finding  that  all  his  efforts  to  comfort 
her  were  in  vain,  he  determined  to  leave  her  to  compose 
herself,  and  to  investigate  the  mystery  alone. 

He  had  not  far  to  seek.  Just  round  the  corner, 
beyond  the  angle  from  the  projecting  masonry  in  which 
the  window  where  this  little  scene  had  taken  place  was 
set,  he  found  a  deep  recess.  Three  steps,  almost  hidden 
by  the  shadow,  led  to  it.  Passing  down  them,  he  found 
his  progress  barred  by  a  door,  so  cunningly  contrived  in 
the  wall,  that  only  the  closest  inspection  and  the  clue 
given  by  the  three  steps  showed  that  it  was  a  door  at 
all.  It  was  locked  and  bolted,  but  there  were  no 
cobwebs  over  it,  and  Roger  saw  immediately,  from  the 
ease  with  which  he  could  play  the  bolt,  that  it  had  been 
freshly  slipped.  Some  one  had  passed  through  lately, 
and  he  instantly  connected  the  door  with  the  key  he  had 
seen  in  his  mother's  hand. 

The  next  step  was  to  persuade  her  to  give  it  up. 
Mistress  Margaret  was  still  crying  pitifully,  and  plain- 
tively lamenting  his  cruel  and  undutiful  conduct.  But 
Roger  was  now  so  absolutely  set  upon  discovery  that  the 
sight  of  her  tears  no  longer  affected  him.  His  suspicions 
were  roused.  He  began  to  perceive  that  here  was 


86  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

another  mystery  which  had  been  concealed  from  him, 
and  to  which  his  mother  was  privy.  He  demanded  the 
key  of  her  in  so  peremptory  a  tone,  that  she  resigned  it 
at  last,  with  a  little  shuddering  scream,  and  Roger  pro- 
ceeded to  unlock  the  door,  which  yielded  easily.  But  as 
he  flung  it  back,  he  was  like  to  have  fallen  headlong,  not 
perceiving  for  a  moment  that  the  flight  of  steps  was  con- 
tinued to  the  floor  of  an  inner  room,  some  three  feet  below. 

Roger  found  himself,  apparently,  in  a  small  chapel. 
Or  rather,  as  he  saw,  the  moment  he  began  to  examine 
the  structure  more  closely,  in  the  roof  of  what  had  once 
been  a  chapel.  On  a  rough  calculation  he  judged  that 
the  space  occupied  by  the  building  was  from  twenty  to 
thirty  feet  long,  and  wide  in  proportion.  The  ceiling 
was  so  low  that  in  many  places  he  could  touch  it  with 
his  hand,  and  from  floor  to  roof  it  was  filled  with  ex- 
quisitely moulded  arches.  They  were  in  the  Gothic 
style,  slightly  pointed,  and  the  interstices  between  were 
filled  in  with  delicate  open  tracery.  Nothing  could  be 
more  beautiful  than  the  graceful  spring  of  these  arches, 
but  the  effect  was  wholly  spoiled  by  their  close  proximity. 
So  thickly  were  they  crowded  one  upon  the  other,  that 
it  was  impossible  from  any  point  to  command  a  complete 
view  of  the  room. 

These  arches  seemed  to  rise  from  the  floor,  but,  to 
judge  from  the  curve  the  described,  they  must 
originally  have  been  continued  to  a  considerable  distance 
below  it.  Roger,  in  common  with  many  country  gentle- 
men, possessed  a  slight  knowledge  of  architecture,  and 
so  soon  as  he  began  to  examine  the  arches,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  their  structure  dated  back  to  an  earlier  time 
than  the  period  assigned  to  the  building  of  the  house. 
When  and  by  whom  had  this  chapel  been  built  ?  And 
how  had  it  come  to  be  imbedded  in  the  house  in  such  a 
manner,  that  its  existence  had  never  been  suspected  by 
the  inmates  ?  Upon  this  latter  point  Roger  soon  satisfied 
himself.  To  conceal  the  chapel  a  false  flooring  had 
been  made,  cutting  it  horizontally  in  two,  and  his 
mother's  chamber  immediately  below  had  really  been 
formed  out  of  the  body  of  the  building. 


THE    NINTH    GABLE.  87 

There  was  a  tiny  window  at  the  further  end.  Roger, 
resolved  to  inspect  every  part  of  the  chapel,  opened  it 
with  difficulty,  and  was  surprised  at  the  noble  view  it 
commanded.  The  river  Orwell  and  the  shipping  in  it 
were  plainly  visible,  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant.  On 
the  other  side  was  the  little  village  of  Stoke,  connected 
with  the  town  by  a  bridge,  and  beyond,  the  flat  sandy 
land  stretched  away  to  Harwich,  then  one  of  the  most 
important  seaport  towns  in  the  kingdom,  through  which 
the  line  of  communication  passed  with  Holland  and  the 
Low  Countries. 

But  had  the  chapel  been  used  of  late  years  ?  Roger 
felt  that  this  was  a  far  more  important  question  than 
the  actual  date  of  the  building,  and  it  troubled  him  to 
think  how  easily  the  door  had  yielded  to  him.  As  he 
turned  away  from  the  window  his  foot  slipped  upon  some 
greasy  substance,  and  stooping  down  he  saw  a  spot  of 
wax,  which  had  evidently  been  dropped  hot  upon  the 
floor,  and  hardened  into  a  lump.  Nothing  else  I  Not  a 
mark,  not  a  shred,  nothing  but  this  blot  of  wax  upon 
the  floor,  to  show  that  anyone  had  disturbed  the  solemn 
silence  of  the  chapel  for  years. 

Roger  went  slowly  back  up  the  steps,  cogitating  the 
matter.  He  turned  mechanically  when  he  reached  the 
top,  and  closed  and  locked  the  door.  As  he  did  so,  he 
noticed  a  peculiarity  in  its  structure,  and  the  idea 
instantly  struck  him  that  he  had  seen  the  same  before. 
Somewhere,  in  some  forgotten  corner  of  the  house,  this 
door  had  a  counterpart.  Roger  went  over  the  massive 
beams  one  by  one,  and  all  the  cumbrous  bolts  and 
fastenings,  as  if  they  could  help  him  to  remember; 
when  suddenly  the  recollection  of  Master  Sturges,  the 
secret  passage,  and  the  Catholic  chapel  at  Alnesbourne 
came  vividly  back  to  him.  Just  such  a  door  it  was  which 
Walter  and  he  had  with  infinite  difficulty  unbolted  in  the 
crypt.  Whoever  had  built  the  one  had  probably  built 
the  other,  the  crypt  itself,  as  far  as  he  could  judge, 
lying  immediately  below  the  chapel.  And  intuitively, 
Roger,  though  he  was  not  usually  quick  to  decide  a 
matter,  leapt  to  the  conclusion  that  Master  Sturges,  the 


88  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

traitor  in  disguise,  was  somehow  connected  with  the 
Popish  chapel,  which,  to  his  horror,  he  had  discovered 
beneath  his  own  roof. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  speaking  more  sternly  than  he  had 
ever  done  before,  "  here  is  thy  key.  It  hath  done  good 
service.  And  now  tell  me,  if  it  please  thee — and  even  if 
it  do  not  please  thee,  for  I  am  resolved  to  know — the 
mystery  of  this  chapel." 

The  inevitable  had  come.  Roger  was  in  possession  of 
the  secret  she  had  jealously  striven  to  keep  from  him, 
and  Mistress  Margaret,  still  sobbing,  dried  her  tears,  and 
consented  to  make  a  full  confession. 

"  Thou  dost  blame  me,  Roger,"  she  said,  plaintively, 
"  for  that  which  is  none  of  my  doing,,  Wherefore  should 
I  be  called  to  account  ?  I  did  not  build  the  chapel.  If 
thou  must  chide,  prithee  chide  thy  father's  memory. 
'Twas  he  who  brought  me  hither,  and  trusted  me  with 
the  key  and  the  secret." 

"  No  word  of  blame  hath  fallen  from  my  lips," 
answered  Roger.  "  I  seek  but  to  know  of  thee  wherefore 
the  secret  was  kept  from  me,  the  master  of  the  house. 
Wherefore  couldest  thou  not  have  shown  me  this  key 
when  the  others,  after  mine  honoured  father's  death, 
were  given  me.  Is  it  seemly  that  a  man  should  be  in 
ignorance  of  that  which  is  in  his  own  house  ?  " 

"  'Twas  thy  father's  wish  that  none  should  know," 
faltered  Mistress  Margaret.  "  The  secret  belonged,  he 
said,  to  the  head  of  the  Sparowes." 

"  Then  by  that  same  token  it  was  thy  duty,  methinks, 
to  tell  me,  mother." 

"  Thou  shalt  hear  it  now,  the  tale  of  it,  an  it  please 
thee,"  she  answered.  "  He  hath  often  told  it  me.  How 
that  the  Sparowes,  being  devout  Catholics,  did  worship 
in  this  chapel,  which  they  found  here,  and  built  the 
house  round  it.  Until  the  persecution  of  the  Papists 
arose,  in  the  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  whereupon  a 
room  was  cunningly  contrived  below,  and  the  roof  of  the 
chapel  shut  off,  that  none  might  know  it  was  there. 
And  thou,  too,  wouldest  never  have  found  it  out,  hadst 
thou  not  seen  the  gable,"  she  concluded,  ruefully. 


THE    NINTH    GABLE.  89 

"  Then  the  chapel  hath  not  been  used  for  nigh  these 
eighty  years  ?  "  asked  Roger  abruptly. 

Mistress  Margaret  started.  "  Did  I  say  so  ?  Nay, 
how  should  I  know  ought  thereof?" 

"  Thou  knowest  much,  mother." 

"  Thy  father  trusted  all  to  me,"  she  answered,  with  a 
sob,  "  And  thou  wilt  trust  me  in  nothing.  He  showed 
me  the  door,  and  charged  me  that  it  should  remain 
closed,  for  mischief  and  sorrow,  he  said,  would  befall  us, 
if  it  were  opened." 

"  But  thou  hast  opened  it,"  said  Roger. 

Mistress  Sparowe  looked  piteously  at  her  son.  "  I 
come  not  often  here,"  she  murmured.  "  Sometimes, 
when  Walter  will  have  it  so." 

"  Walter !  "  cried  Roger,  sharply.  "  Walter,  didst  thou 
say  ?  What  hath  Water  to  do  with  it  ?  Hath  he  know'n 
this  secret,  which  thou  hast  guarded  so  safely  from  me  ?  " 

"  He  is  masterful,"  sighed  Mistress  Margaret. 
"  He  will  never  be  content,  when  I  say  him  no.  He 
tormented  me,  until  I  told  him." 

Mistress  Margaret  was  in  sore  perplexity.  She  hated 
sharp  words  and  recrimination,  and  would  fain  not  have 
had  so  much  as  a  crumbled  rose  leaf  to  disturb  her.  And, 
behold !  unkind  Fate  had  cast  her  lot  in  the  midst  of 
such  jarring  interests,  such  fierce  strife,  that  she  was 
drawn  helplessly  into  trouble  after  trouble.  Roger's 
next  words  did  not  tend  to  comfort  her. 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  "  he  exciaimed,  "  wilt  thou  for 
ever  use  this  secrecy  with  me  ?  Shall  that  be  always 
done  behind  my  back,  which  none  dare  own  to  my 
face  ?  " 

"  Now  thou  art  angry  with  me,"  quoth  Mistress 
Margaret,  beginning  to  cry  afresh,  "  and  thou  wilt  chide 
me,  and  be  stern,  and  thine  eyes  will  reproach  me,  when 
thou  knowest  I  cannot  bear  wrathful  looks.  Could  I 
help  it,  when  Walter  was  so  instant  with  me  for  the  key, 
that  I  gave  it  him  perforce,  only  to  be  rid  of  him.  I 
see  not,  even  now,  that  I  have  done  aught  amiss." 

"  I  chide  thee  not,  mother.  We  will  speak  no  more 
of  it." 


90  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Roger  turned  slowly  away,  and  went  down  stairs, 
leaving  his  mother  standing  alone  in  the  great  bare  loft. 
Even  to  Mistress  Margaret,  who  never  insisted  upon  her 
parental  rights,  such  an  act,  in  those  days  of  rigid 
deference,  seemed  greatly  disrespectful.  But  Roger 
was  in  no  mood  for  ceremony.  His  heart  was  sore 
within  him.  Her  half  petulant  expostulations  fell 
unheeded  on  his  ear.  Wherever  he  turned,  he  was  met 
with  falsehood  and  equivocation.  A  network  of  treachery 
had  been  woven  round  him.  His  love  for  his  mother 
had  blinded  him  hitherto  to  her  faults.  Now,  he  could 
no  longer  hide  from  himself  that  she  had  deceived  him 
in  this  matter,  as  he  feared  she  had  deceived  him  in 
others. 

But  Roger  had  never  the  heart  to  blame  his  mother 
for  long.  Like  his  father  before  him,  he  made  wide 
allowance  for  her.  She  could  not  help  it,  he  said  to 
himself.  She  was  a  woman,  and  therefore  not  to  be 
held  as  fully  responsible  for  her  actions  as  a  man.  As 
usual,  whenever  he  was  tempted  to  be  angry  with  her, 
he  made  Walter  the  scapegoat.  It  was  he  who  had  led 
their  mother  into  wrong-doing,  he,  doubtless,  who  had 
sealed  her  lips,  and  forbidden  her  to  speak  of  the  secret 
chapel. 

Since  Walter  went  to  the  war,  Roger  had  begun  to 
feel  more  tenderly  towards  him.  In  his  inmost  heart  he 
had  relented,  not  because  Walter's  sin  appeared  the  less 
heinous,  but  simply  because  he  hungered  for  love  and 
family  union.  Once  more,  his  love  was  thrown  back 
upon  itself;  once  more  his  heart  closed,  and  this  time, 
as  it  seemed,  for  ever.  This  last  evidence  of  deceit  was 
too  much.  The  proceedings  in  the  Catholic  chapel  at 
Alnesbourne  were  as  nothing  as  compared  with  the  fact 
that  he,  Roger  Sparowe,  the  Puritan,  had  a  Popish 
chapel  established  in  his  own  house,  sanctioned  by  his 
own  family.  That  blot  of  wax  on  the  floor!  Roger 
remembered,  with  a  shudder,  how  the  wax  had  dropped 
from  the  tapers  on  the  altar  at  Alnesbourne. 

Now  also  various  strange  circumstances  came  to  his 
mind.  Sometimes  after  Master  Sturges,  much  to  the 


THE    NINTH    GABLE.  91 

host's  annoyance,  had  joined  them  at  the  mid-day  meal, 
Roger  recollected  that  Walter  and  the  guest  had  betaken 
themselves  upstairs  for  hours,  to  drink,  as  they  said. 
Where  they  went  had  alway  been  a  mystery  to  him, 
since  he  had  never  been  able  to  find  them  in  any  of  the 
usual  sitting  rooms.  Beyond  all  question,  they  had 
spent  their  time  in  the  chapel,  and  who  could  tell  what 
had  taken  place  ?  Far  better,  Roger  bitterly  reflected, 
had  Walter  half  drunk  himself  to  death  on  these 
occasions,  than  have  allowed  Master  Obadiah  to  tamper 
with  his  spiritual  convictions.  Roger  was  not  more 
illiberal  than  the  rest  of  his  countrymen,  but  Popery,  to 
all  the  Puritans,  was  a  very  real  and  terrible  thing 
Even  the  discovery  at  Colchester  did  not  weigh  with 
Roger  as  much  as  that  morsel  of  wax  on  the  chapel 
floor. 

So  he  sat  and  mused,  and  grieved  over  the  conduct  of 
the  household  committed  to  his  charge,  and  humbled 
himself  for  his  shortcomings.  Then  he  took  his  Bible, 
and  searched  out  all  the  texts  he  was  accustomed  to 
refer  to  Popery,  and  all  which  would  bear  application  to 
himself,  as  a  lax  steward  of  his  trust.  Until,  after  an 
hour  of  this  self-tormenting,  he  began  to  doubt  whether, 
in  truth,  Walter  or  he  were  the  greater  sinner. 


92 


CHAPTER   VII. 
ALICE'S   GARDEN. 


THE  harvest  time  wore  away,  News  began  slowly  to 
circulate,  in  vague  rumours  at  first,  to  which  more 
authentic  details  were  gradually  added.  In  the  second 
week  in  September,  a  few  wounded  soldiers  from  the 
army  of  the  Commonwealth  made  their  appearance  in 
the  town.  They  brought  positive  confirmation  of  the 
report  that  a  great  battle  had  been  fought  at  Worcester, 
and  the  Royalists  totally  defeated.  The  army  of  the 
young  King  had  dispersed.  The  Scottish  forces  were 
retreating  in  a  body  to  the  North,  while  the  English 
Royalists,  scattered  and  broken,  were  hunted  down  and 
taken  prisoners  by  the  victors. 

The  main  bulk  of  the  Puritan  army  still  lay  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Worcester,  in  spite  of  the  pressing 
necessity  that  the  country  people  should  be  at  home,  to 
gather  in  the  harvest.  It  was  not  thought  prudent  to 
disband  them  until  the  last  remnant  of  the  Cavaliers 
had  been  crushed.  According  to  some,  the  Lord  General 
had  determined  to  make  an  end  of  the  Malignants,  and 
to  vindicate  the  authority  of  the  Parliament.  Others  held 
that  the  authority  of  Parliament  had  long  been  only  a 
cloak  for  the  establishment  of  his  own  supremacy.  At 
this  moment  he  was  all-powerful  in  England,  the  one 
clear-headed  man  among  hundreds  of  waverers,  and 
what  he  would  do  was  a  far  more  critical  question  than 
the  fate  of  the  defeated  army. 

All  hope  or  all  danger,  according  to  the  view  taken  of 
the  campaign,  being  now  at  an  end,  the  chief  concern 
of  almost  every  family  in  England  was  to  learn  the  fate 
of  individual  soldiers.  Although  there  was  scarcely  a 
household  which  was  not  directly  interested  in  the  issue 
of  the  struggle,  the  most  agonizing  uncertainty  prevailed 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  93 

for  some  time.  No  one  could  even  say  what  had  become 
of  the  young  King.  From  the  absence  of  all  mention 
of  him  in  the  various  reports,  it  was  supposed  at  first 
that  he  had  escaped,  and  that  the  Puritan  army  would 
not  disband  till  he  was  captured.  But  the  soldiers,  as 
they  dropped  into  the  town  by  twos  and  threes,  so 
positively  asserted  that  he  was  killed,  some  even  declar- 
ing that  they  had  seen  his  dead  body,  that  it  came  to  be 
generally  believed  that  he  had  met  a  soldier's  fate  on  the 
field  of  battle. 

Among  the  first  to  abandon  all  hope  was  Mistress 
Margaret.  She  had  transferred  to  the  young  King  she 
had  never  seen,  her  almost  idolatrous  devotion  to  the 
memory  of  his  martyred  father,  a  devotion  only  second 
to  her  love  for  Walter.  Now,  in  the  reaction  from  her 
over  sanguine  hopes,  she  fell  into  the  deepest  despair. 
Almost  in  one  moment  she  made  up  her  mind  that  her 
son  and  his  master  were  both  dead.  She  pathetically 
bewailed  her  sad  fate  in  losing  husband  and  son  in  the 
war,  and  it  was  vain  to  represent  to  her  that  Walter's 
death  was  not  yet  a  certainty.  When  Roger  tried  to  com- 
fort her  by  suggesting  that  his  brother  was  probably  in 
hiding,  otherwise  tidings  of  him  must  have  reached  them 
by  this  time,  she  retorted  with  bitter  words  and  re- 
proaches. She  told  him  that  he  desired  the  death  of 
the  King,  which  was  undoubtedly  true,  since  Roger,  in 
common  with  most  Puritans,  thought  the  country  would 
never  be  settled  while  he  was  alive.  Then  she  cast  in 
his  teeth,  that  he  wished  for  his  brother's  death  too,  and 
leapt,  by  a  curious  process  in  her  own  mind,  to  the  con- 
viction that  because  he  wished  it,  Walter  was  sure 
to  die. 

As  time  went  on,  Roger  himself  grew  terribly  anxious. 
It  was  hard  to  believe  that  Walter,  if  he  were  alive, 
could  not  have  found  means  to  send  them  news  of  his 
safety.  Each  day  that  passed  increased  the  agony  of 
uncertainty.  Roger  sometimes  felt  as  if  he  would  give 
the  whole  world  to  look  his  brother  once  more  in  the 
face.  Yet  the  difference  between  them  was  irreconcil- 
able. His  rigid  nature,  almost  fantastically  upright  and 


94  A   KINO'S    RANSOM. 

honourable,  revolted  from  Walter's  conduct,  from  his 
miserable  entanglement  at  Colchester,  and  his  deceit 
with  Master  Sturges.  But  nature  was  strong,  and  he 
often  found  himself  yearning  for  the  old  love  and  boyish 
confidence,  which  could  never  be  restored. 

Roger  Sparowe  with  his  grave  face,  his  measured 
speech,  his  careful  self-control,  was  as  hungry  for  love  as 
any  child.  And  this  heart  hunger  had  never  been  satisfied. 
Death  had  severed  the  bond  which  united  him  and  his 
father ;  his  mother  and  Walter  feared  him  more  than 
they  loved  him.  Ralph  Wentworth  was  away,  dead 
perhaps  by  this  time,  and  Roger  had  no  other  friend. 
There  was  something  in  the  young  Puritan's  cold,  quiet 
exterior,  which  repelled  instead  of  attracting  people. 
Roger  was  fully  conscious  of  it,  conscious  too  that  no 
one  had  been  at  the  pains  to  break  the  crust  of  reserve, 
and  discover  the  warm  deep  heart  beneath. 

No  one  I  Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  Roger 
stepped  out  into  the  courtyard,  looked  up  at  the  sky  and 
the  clouds,  and  suddenly  determined,  this  very  afternoon, 
to  go  to  Mote  End.  An  excellent  excuse  for  the  journey 
lay  ready,  besides  the  necessity  of  taking  advantage  of 
the  fine  summer  weather  to  pay  all  needful  visits  at  a 
distance.  Tidings  had  come  that  Master  Burroughs 
had  received  a  news-letter  from  London  ;  and  Mistress 
Margaret  herself  had,  for  some  days,  been  urgent  with 
her  son  to  go  and  hear  the  contents  of  it. 

It  was  a  brilliant  afternoon  in  September  that  Roger 
stood,  booted  and  spurred,  waiting  for  his  horse  at  the 
door  of  the  great  house.  Like  other  reserved  men,  he 
seemed  to  have  a  kind  of  innate  sympathy  with  animals 
and  children,  and  all  dumb  and  helpless  creatures.  He 
handled  them  easily,  without  any  nervous  timidity,  and 
there  was  not  a  horse  in  the  stable  he  could  not  control 
by  his  voice.  The  animal  he  was  going  to  ride  was  a 
beautiful  Spanish  jennet,  given  him  not  long  ago  by  a 
merchant  to  whom  he  had  been  able  to  render  some 
service.  Roger  was  not  yet  intimate  with  his  new 
favourite.  When  he  went  to  London,  he  had  ridden  a 
stout  Flemish  mare,  kept  for  the  heavy  work  of  the 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  95 

household,  the  Spanish  horse  not  being  strong  enough 
for  so  long  a  journey.  Yet,  though  she  had  only  been  a 
few  weeks  in  his  stables,  the  beautiful  creature,  when  she 
was  brought  round,  pawed  the  ground,  pricked  up  her 
delicate  ears,  and  curvetted  with  pleasure,  as  Roger  took 
the  reins,  with  a  pat  of  the  neck  and  a  few  kind  words. 
As  he  rode  off,  and  looked  back  to  wave  farewell  to 
his  mother,  whose  usually  bright  face  was  clouded  and 
disconsolate,  Roger  had  an  unwonted  sense  of  pleasure 
and  comfort.  He  was  well  mounted  and  well  accoutred. 
The  paces  of  his  horse  were  perfect,  his  attire  was  trim, 
his  grey  riding  suit  of  the  finest  cloth.  His  spurs,  the 
pistols  at  his  holster,  without  which  no  gentleman 
stirred  abroad,  and  the  trappings  of  his  horse,  all  shone 
like  silver.  And  to  crown  all,  he  was  going  to  Mote 
End  !  For  a  moment  he  was  absolutely  elated.  Then 
a  sudden  presentiment  of  disaster,  such  as  had  often 
disturbed  him  of  late,  seized  him  ;  and  the  rest  of  the 
journey  was  accomplished  with  his  usual  melancholy 
gravity. 

The  news-letter  proved  to  contain  very  little  intelligence 
Roger  had  not  already  heard.  Naturally  it  dwelt  chiefly 
on  the  great  deliverance  wrought  at  Worcester,  and  gave 
a  tolerably  accurate  list  of  the  Puritans  who  had  fallen 
in  the  battle,  but  not  a  single  Cavalier  officer  was 
mentioned  by  name.  Roger's  anxiety  about  his  brother 
was  in  no  ways  lessened,  It  almost  seemed  as  if  he 
would  be  obliged  to  go  up  to  London,  or  to  the  seat  of 
war,  to  obtain  certain  information  of  his  fate.  Some 
hint  of  such  a  project  transpired,  as  Master  Burroughs 
and  he  carefully  perused  each  paragraph  of  the  news- 
letter. 

"  Do  it  not,  my  son,"  counselled  the  old  Puritan. 
"  'Twere  a  hazardous  and  a  bootless  journey  to  under- 
take. Neither  can  it  profit  you  to  go.  Long  ere  this, 
your  erring  brother  should  have  been  to  you  as  an 
heathen  man  and  a  publican.  '  If  thine  hand  or  thy 
foot  offend  thee,  cut  it  off,  and  cast  it  from  thee.' " 

"  But  Walter  may  be  in  trouble ;  he  may  need  me," 
objected  Roger. 


96  A  KINO'S  RANSOM. 

"  He  hath  sinned,  not  only  against  you,  but  against 
the  Lord,"  continued  Master  Burroughs,  disregarding 
the  interruption.  "  Let  him  die  in  his  sins ;  the  time 
for  repentance  is  past." 

Perhaps  Master  Burroughs  would  not  have  delivered 
so  stern  a  judgment  had  it  touched  a  son  of  his  own. 
He  was  always  harsher  in  theory  than  in  practice,  but 
Walter  Sparowe,  in  his  careless  way,  had  contrived  to 
inspire  him  with  a  deadly  aversion.  Roger  knew  that 
argument  was  useless,  and  changing  the  conversation, 
inquired  after  the  ladies. 

"  They  are  both  within,"  answered  his  host.  "  Kezia 
is  sick,  and  keepeth  her  chamber ;  the  Lord  restore  her 
to  health ! " 

"  Amen ! "  said  Roger,  devoutly,  but  he  could  not 
repress  a  feeling  of  pleasure  at  the  thought  that  he 
might  by  chance,  have  a  few  moments  alone  with  Alice. 
"  Of  what  nature  is  her  sickness  ?  She  had  it  not  when 
I  came  hither  before." 

"  No,  and  'tis  but  slight,"  answered  Master  Burroughs. 
"  She  over-heated  herself  a  week  since,  and  nought  will 
serve  but  she  must  keep  her  chamber.  She  is  but  a 
weakly  body,  though  the  spirit  is  willing." 

"  And  Mistress  Alice  ?  " 

•'  Alice  is  in  the  buttery.  Nay,  hold,  I  saw  her  in  the 
garden  gathering  herbs.  She  hath  had  more  to  do  since 
Kezia's  sickness,  and  hath  bestirred  herself  bravely. 
This  affliction  hath  been  blessed  to  her.  Methought  she 
was  over  quiet  before." 

"  But  she  hath  not  been  ill,"  asked  Roger,  anxiously. 

"  I  say  not  ill,"  answered  Master  Burroughs,  stroking 
his  beard,  "  but  silent  beyond  the  wont  of  a  young 
maiden.  I  like  it  not.  Women  should  be  blythe  and 
active,  and  wholly  concerned  in  household  work,  like 
mine  honoured  mother — not  pensive,  and  given  to  lonely 
musings." 

The  old  man  glanced  up,  as  he  spoke,  at  a  picture 
above  the  hearth.  Roger  and  he  were  sitting  in  the  long 
hall,  the  common  room  of  the  family.  It  was  not  hung 
with  ancestral  portraits,  like  the  rooms  in  the  Old 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  97 

House.  The  walls  were  chiefly  adorned  with  hunting 
and  military  trophies,  and  over  the  door  hung  the  sword 
Master  Burroughs  had  worn  at  Marston  Moor.  But 
this  painting  evidently  occupied  the  place  of  honour.  It 
represented  a  stern  Puritan  dame,  arrayed  in  draperies 
so  sombre  that  it  was  only  in  certain  lights  they  could 
be  seen  at  all.  To  the  ordinary  observer  nothing  was 
visible  but  rigid,  pale  features,  curiously  like  Kezia's, 
framed  in  a  white,  close-fitting  cap,  a  huge  ruff  round 
the  throat,  and  a  pair  of  bony  hands  holding  a  Bible. 
The  artist,  however,  had  probably  not  done  justice  to  his 
sitter.  Something  of  human  love  and  tenderness  there 
must  have  been  in  the  original,  or  Master  Burroughs 
would  never  have  bestowed  such  a  look  of  affectionate 
admiration  upon  the  portrait.  But  Roger,  glancing  up, 
was  seized  with  misgiving,  as  if  Kezia  herself  were 
watching  him  with  those  cold  eyes,  and  suddenly 
determined  that,  now  or  never,  while  she  was  absent, 
he  would  put  his  hopes  to  the  test. 

"  Master  Burroughs,"  he  asked,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
"  might  I  crave  a  few  moments  private  speech  of  you  ?  " 

Master  Burroughs  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "  Me- 
thought  we  had  discoursed  already  touching  various 
matters,  my  son,"  he  answered ;  "  but  an  you  have 
somewhat  further  to  say,  say  on." 

But  Roger  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  avail  himself  of  the 
permission.  He  cleared  his  throat,  fidgetted,  and  played 
with  his  collar  bands,  till  Master  Burroughs,  growing 
impatient,  took  up  a  parchment  and  began  to  read.  At 
this  moment  a  serving  man  entered,  and  whispered  a 
few  words  to  the  master  of  the  house. 

"  Tell  him  I  will  not  see  him,"  said  Master  Burroughs, 
angrily.  "  I  cannot  help  him.  I  know  nought  touching 
his  bit  of  land.  And  I  have  company  here,  on  business 
of  importance." 

"  The  man  saith  he  will  be  brief,  if  your  honour  will 
see  him,"  answered  the  servant.  "  He  is  a  poor  man, 
and  hath  been  here  before." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Master  Burroughs,  with  a  frown. 
"Tis  some  poor  wretch,"  he  continued,  turning  to 

H 


98  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Roger,  "  who  tormenteth  me  concerning  a  bit  of  land 
he  saith  is  wrongfully  withheld  from  him." 

"  I  would  not  detain  you,  sir  ...  ."  began  Roger. 

"  Nay,  my  son,  your  business  hath  waited  already. 
But  an  it  could  stay  a  while,  and  I  saw  this  man,  and 
made  an  end  of  him  and  his  petition  .  .  ." 

Roger  rose,  not  without  a  feeling  of  relief  at  putting 
off  the  communication  he  had  to  make.  "  His  need  of 
you  is  more  urgent  than  mine,"  he  said.  "  I  will  wait, 
sir,  in  this  room,  if  you  will  suffer  me." 

"  Nay,  you  shall  not  lack  for  company.  Alice  is  in 
the  garden,  and  she  will  make  shift,  I  doubt  not,  to 
entertain  you  till  I  am  quit  of  the  man.  A  thousand 
thanks  for  your  patience,  my  son." 

Roger  did  not  look  as  if  his  patience  were  severely 
tested.  He  sprang  up  joyfully  from  the  settle,  then 
composed  himself,  and  tried  to  walk  demurely  out  of  the 
room,  as  he  caught  a  meaning  smile  from  the  servant, 
which  sent  the  blood  to  his  cheeks.  Like  most  of  the 
household  retainers  the  man  regarded  the  affairs  of  the 
family  with  almost  as  much  interest  as  his  own,  and  he 
seemed  highly  amused  at  Roger's  eagerness,  and  Master 
Burroughs  convenient  ignorance  of  what  was  passing 
before  his  eyes. 

Mistress  Alice's  garden  had  become  a  proverb  in  the 
country  for  beauty  and  sweetness.  When  the  house 
had  been  built,  not  so  long  ago,  for  the  Burroughs  had 
only  settled  on  the  land  within  living  memory,  not  a 
thought  had  been  bestowed  upon  the  laying  out  of  the 
ground.  It  was  left  in  its  natural  uncultivated  state, 
and  the  grass  was  suffered  to  grow  up  to  the  threshold, 
and  the  great  trees  to  obstruct  the  view,  without  let 
or  hindrance.  The  inhabitants  of  Mote  End  were  too 
practical,  and  the  times  too  anxious,  for  anyone  to  care 
about  mere  beauty  of  appearance.  Trouble  was  in  the 
very  air  of  England,  long  before  the  Civil  War  broke 
out ;  and  when  the  struggle  came  it  was  idle,  of  course, 
to  think  of  laying  out  as  a  garden  to-day  what  might  be 
in  ruins  to-morrow. 

But  when,  some  three  or  four  years  before,  Alice  grew 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  99 

out  of  childhood,  one  of  the  few  requests  she  made  to 
her  father  was  that  he  should  give  her  a  bit  of  this 
rough  ground,  to  do  as  she  would  with  it.  It  might  be 
had  for  the  asking,  he  told  her  with  a  grim  laugh,  as  he 
granted  her  petition.  Had  he  consulted  his  elder 
daughter,  he  would  not  have  yielded  so  easily.  When 
Kezia  saw  the  use  to  which  Alice  intended  to  put  her 
ground,  she  was  struck  with  horror,  and  solemnly 
warned  her  not  to  follow  the  example  of  Cain,  and 
make  an  offering  to  the  Lord  of  the  fruits  of  the  ground. 
It  was  her  own  heart,  still  full  of  all  manner  of 
uncleanness,  which  needed  the  fostering  care  she,  in  a 
carnally-minded  way,  was  bestowing  on  a  plot  of  grass. 
Whereupon  one  of  their  rare  altercations  ensued  between 
the  sisters.  Alice,  always,  was  perfectly  gentle,  but 
she  did  not  yield  her  point.  She  seldom  did,  when 
convinced  that  it  was  right.  And,  after  citing  the 
example  of  the  great  first  father,  who  was  set  in  the 
garden  of  Eden  expressly  to  till  it,  and  other  Scripture 
precedents,  she  was  allowed,  at  last,  to  continue  her 
work. 

Alice's  next  step  was  to  press  into  the  service  a  lad 
about  the  place,  who  had  been  her  devoted  slave,  ever 
since  she  had  nursed  him  through  a  dangerous  illness. 
Then  it  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  how  she  worked  and 
planned  and  laboured.  How  she  soiled  her  delicate 
white  hands  with  the  unmaidenly  occupation  of  planting 
and  pruning,  and  even  sometimes  would  take  a  spade, 
and  help  the  boy  to  dig.  How  she  tended  and  cherished 
the  flowers,  as  it  was  her  nature  to  cherish  everything, 
and  made  a  special  study  of  all  their  peculiarities.  And 
how  at  last  she  was  rewarded  for  all  her  pains,  and  the 
grateful  earth  began  to  smile,  and  the  wilderness  to 
blossom,  literally,  as  the  rose. 

Alice  loved  roses,  and  it  was  one  of  her  fancies  to 
have  them  everywhere.  Not  the  tender  exotics  of  our 
day,  which  must  be  shaded,  and  watered,  and  coaxed  into 
growing,  and  which,  with  all  the  care  in  the  world,  will 
scarcely  yield  a  dozen  blossoms  in  the  year ;  but  great 
noble  bushes  that,  once  planted,  ran  wild,  and  trailed 


100  A   KING'S    RANSOM. 

their  lovely  branches  over  half  the  garden.  From  June 
to  October  the  rose  trees  were  in  full  bloom,  and  Alice 
was  even  able  to  have  a  few  flowers  for  her  sick  folks, 
from  some  of  the  hardier  kinds,  as  late  as  Christmas. 

The  view  from  here  was  lovely.  Alice  had  chosen  a 
little  plot  of  rising  ground,  which  commanded  the 
surrounding  country.  In  the  distance  rose  the  town  of 
Ipswich,  with  its  stately  churches,  and  picturesque  gables, 
and  red  tiled  roofs,  which  conveyed  so  quaint  a  sense  of 
warmth  and  comfort. 

But  the  distinguishing  feature  of  the  garden  was  its 
fragrance.  Every  wind  that  blew  seemed  to  breathe 
sweetness  into  the  flowers.  Besides  the  roses,  there 
were  bushes  of  lavender,  and  clumps  of  sweetwilliams, 
and  tall  pinks  and  gillyflowers  that  scented  the  whole 
garden.  Not  a  flower  was  admitted  that  had  not  some 
sweet  perfume  of  its  own. 

Yet  there  was  one  bed  where  this  rule  had  been 
infringed.  Here  were  nothing  but  small,  low  plants  and 
stunted  bushes,  with  brown  dusty-looking  leaves,  and  no 
blossoms  worthy  of  mention.  They  had  neither  beauty 
nor  fragrance  to  recommend  them,  and  yet  Alice 
bestowed  more  pains  and  care  on  this  bed  than  on  any 
other.  Truth  to  tell,  it  was  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  it, 
that  she  had  begged  the  ground  of  her  father.  It  was 
her  herbarium,  where  she  cultivated  the  medicinal  plants 
and  herbs  which,  with  her  own  hands — like  most  ladies 
of  the  time — she  made  up  into  potions,  and  cordials, 
and  cooling  draughts. 

At  that  time,  in  country  districts,  ladies  were  often 
the  only  doctors.  The  still  room,  as  it  was  called — the 
place  where  waters  were  distilled,  and  the  stock  of 
household  medicines  prepared — was  an  important  part 
of  the  house.  At  Mote  End  there  was  no  physician 
within  nearer  reach  than  the  doctor  at  Ipswich,  whose 
fees  were  enormous,  who  was  growing  old  and  stout, 
and  who  absolutely  refused  to  toil  through  the  miry 
roads  in  winter.  Thus  it  happened  that  the  practice  of 
the  district — if  we  may  use  a  modern  expression — had 
fallen  into  Alice  Burroughs'  fair  hands.  Kezia's  clear 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  101 

head  and  practical  common  sense  were  often  helpful, 
but  she  had  no  patience,  and  she  could  not,  like  Alice, 
bring  her  heart  as  well  as  her  head  to  bear  upon  any 
difficult  lease.  Mistress  Alice's  cures  were  renowned, 
and  the  country  people  maintained  that  there  was  no 
doctor  to  compare  with  her. 

As  Alice  turned  to  greet  her  guest  her  hands,  literally 
as  well  as  metaphorically,  dropped  fragrance.  This  was 
the  day  set  apart  from  time  immemorial  for  the  annual 
gathering  of  rose  leaves  and  lavender,  and  sweet-smelling 
herbs,  wherewith  to  perfume  the  stores  of  household 
linen.  And  although  Kezia  herself  was  laid  aside  by 
sickness,  she  had  none  the  less  insisted  that  the  work 
should  proceed  as  usual.  Alice,  therefore,  had  been 
gathering  rose  leaves  and  lavender  since  early  morning, 
and  dearly  as  she  loved  flowers,  she  was  almost  weary 
of  her  task. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Mistress  Alice,"  said  Roger 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  as  he  advanced  from 
the  dark  house  into  the  glowing  sunshine.  "  Your 
father  hath  permitted  me  to  come  hither  and  enjoy 
your  company  for  awhile.  He  hath  some  business  to 
dispatch.  But  I  hinder  you,  may  be." 

"  Nay,  you  hinder  me  not,  Master  Sparowe,"  returned 
Alice,  blushing.  "  I  do  but  fear  my  dull  company  may 
prove  wearisome  to  you." 

"  Wearisome  1 "  Roger  looked  up,  hastily,  then  checking 
himself,  he  said :  "  I  pray  you,  let  me  not  delay  you  at 
your  work." 

"  It  will  stay  for  a  few  minutes,"  said  Alice.  "  I  am 
somewhat  weary  of  it,  and  much  hath  been  done 
already.  Even  Kezia.  would  say  I  had  been  diligent." 

She  plunged  her  shapely  arms,  bare  to  the  elbow,  into 
a  great  wooden  tub  of  rose  leaves  that  stood  by,  and  let 
them  drop  lovingly  through  her  fingers.  Roger  watched 
her  with  delight. 

"  Mistress  Kezia  herself  is  not  more  diligent  than 
you,"  he  said.  "  Never  do  I  see  you,  Mistress  Alice, 
but  you  are  helpful  to  someone.  Those  rose  leaves  now 
— I  trow  they  are  for  some  poor  body." 


102  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Nay,  they  are  to  scent  the  linen.  But  when  we 
have  good  store,  wherefore  withhold  it  from  those  who 
have  nought.  It  maketh  our  own  enjoyment  the 
sweeter,  albeit  Kezia  saith  the  gathering  of  rose  leaves 
is  partly  vanity." 

"That  which  you  do  cannot  be  vanity,"  protested 
Roger,  earnestly.  "  All  that  you  do  is  well  done.  Tis  I 
alone,  Mistress  Alice,  who  am  an  unprofitable  servant, 
cumbering  the  ground." 

Alice  looked  up  from  the  rose  leaves.  "  We  are  all 
unprofitable  servants.  There  is  not  one  that  doeth 
good,"  she  said,  gravely.  "  But,  Master  Sparowe — your 
pardon,  if  my  words  hurt  you — is  it  not  possible  to 
think  too  much  even  of  our  own  unprofitableness  ?  " 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  "  asked  Roger,  surprised.  "  Doth 
it  not  behove  us  all  to  keep  ourselves  in  mind  of  our 
lost  estate  and  wretchedness,  and  of  the  fear  of  hell, 
and  of  eternal  perdition  ?  " 

"  The  fear  of  hell !  ay,  and  likewise  the  hope  of 
heaven.  Sometimes,  good  Master  Sparowe,  methinks 
we  forget  our  Father  and  think  only  of  our  Judge." 

"  I  apprehend  you  not,  Mistress  Alice,"  answered 
Roger.  "Is  it  not  enjoined  on  us  in  our  weekly 
exercises,  and  in  the  monthly  fasts,  to  purify  our  souls 
by  confession  and  repentance  ?  Hath  not  the  Parlia- 
ment appointed  days  of  national  humiliation  for  our 
wickedness  ?  " 

Alice  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  The  two  were 
walking  slowly  down  a  garden  path,  and  as  they  reached 
the  bed  where  the  medical  herbs  grew  she  stopped, 
and  turned  to  Roger  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"  Master  Sparowe,"  said  she,  "  when  I  prepare  my 
potions  from  these  herbs,  and  carry  them  to  our  poor 
sick  folk,  I  sit  me  down  by  their  beds,  and  ask  them  first 
how  they  feel.  Where  lies  the  pain  ?  Is  their  sickness 
assuaged  by  this  remedy,  or  by  that?  Is  the  head  hot 
or  cool  ?  And  I  bid  them  tell  me  all  and  count  nothing 
too  trifling.  But  when,  by  the  Lord's  mercy,  they  are 
raised  up  again,  as  happeneth  oftentimes,  then  when  I 
visit  them,  I  ask  them  nought.  I  bid  them  straightway 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  103 

forget  their  ailment,  and  having  given  thanks,  to  go  on 
their  way  rejoicing." 

Alice  paused,  but  Roger  did  not  interrupt  her.  He 
was  puzzled,  and  waited  for  her  to  explain  her 
meaning. 

"  I  have  often  seen  Master  Sparowe,"  she  continued, 
"  that  a  healthy  body  doth  not  take  cognizance  of  itself. 
Those  who  think  much  of  their  health,  and  how  to 
preserve  it,  have  assuredly  some  disease  of  mind  or 
body.  And  so,  methinks,  is  it  oftentimes  with  our 
souls.  We  are  given  to  much,  it  may  be  to  overmuch, 
meditation  on  our  sins.  Should  we  not  rather,  being 
persuaded  that  we  are  the  children  of  our  Father  in 
heaven,  commit  the  keeping  of  our  souls  to  Him  ?  " 

Alice  had  never  before,  in  Roger's  hearing,  made  so 
long  a  speech,  and  her  vivid  blushes  showed  the  effort  it 
cost  her. 

"  Mistress  Alice,"  he  said,  "an  I  could  take  comfort 
in  your  words,  I  were  a  happier  man.  It  may  be  I 
trouble  myself  overmuch,  but  I  have  many  cares  and 
the  right  path  is  hard  to  choose." 

"  Fear  can  only  blind  us,  and  make  the  right  harder  to 
see,"  she  answered  gently.  "  And  touching  those  same 
cares,  Master  Sparowe  " — she  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
to  see  if  they  were  alone,  "  I  have  somewhat  I  would 
fain  say  to  you,  if  I  may." 

"  Speak  and  fear  not,"  cried  Roger.  "  You  are  as  a 
good  physician  to-day,  who  lays  a  wound  bare,  that  he 
may  apply  a  healing  salve  to  it." 

"  Nay,  I  am  no  physician  of  the  mind,"  said  Alice, 
smiling  a  little  to  cover  her  embarrassment — "  I  know 
not  if  I  dare  ...  if  you  will  not  hold  me  to  be  forward 
and  unmaidenly,  and  meddling  in  matters  which  concern 
me  not." 

"  How  were  that  possible  ?  "  Roger  seized  her  hand, 
then  catching  a  distressed  look  from  her,  he  dropped  it 
again,  and  the  two  paced  slowly  down  the  path  for  a 
few  moments  in  silence. 

"  Peradventure  I  shall  offend  you,"  said  Alice  at 
last,  "but  my  father  and  Kezia  have  so  often  spoken  .  .  ." 


104  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Mistress  Kezia !     Proceed,  I  beseech  you." 

"  Tis  in  the  matter  of  your  lady  mother,  and  of  her 
remaining  with  you,"  continued  Alice.  "  My  father  and 
sister  have  dealt  with  you  to  send  her  from  you,  because 
of  her  leanings  towards  Prelacy,  or  to  constrain  her  to 
change  her  religion." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  said  Roger,  hoarsely,  turning  white 
to  the  lips.  "  Have  they  set  you  on  likewise  to  urge  me, 
Mistress  Alice  ?  Forbear,  I  pray  you ;  here  alone  your 
words  will  avail  nothing."  He  turned  aside,  and  flung 
away  a  rose  Alice  had  given  him,  crushed  into  a  shape- 
less mass. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Alice.  "  It  is  not  so.  None  hath 
urged  me.  I  speak  of  myself,  and  you  misapprehend 
me.  Your  mother  must  not  leave  you.  She  hath  the 
right  to  the  first  place  in  your  heart,  and  in  your  home." 

"  You  would  not  she  should  go  ? "  asked  Roger, 
breathlessly. 

"  Never.  Mistress  Margaret  is  soft  and  delicate,  and 
'twould  kill  her.  An  you  could  bear  it,  I  could  not — I 
that  would  fain  comfort  every  living  creature.  But 
sometimes,  when  my  father  and  Kezia  are  urgent  with 
you,  1  fear  lest  you  should  be  wrought  to  do  it,  hard 
as  it  may  be." 

"  Mistress  Alice,"  said  Roger,  his  eyes  moist  with 
tears,  "  methinks  you  are  an  angel  straight  from  heaven. 
I  needed  not  your  words,  since  I  could  never  find  it  in 
my  heart,  but  oh  1  to  hear  you  say  'tis  not  my  duty !  " 

"  It  is  not  what  I  say,"  interrupted  Alice.  "  Doth  not 
your  own  conscience  speak  ?  A  mother !  to  be  harsh 
with  a  mother  !  Ah,  if  I  had  a  mother  1 " 

The  tears,  which  had  lain  near  the  surface  all  the 
time,  dropped  at  last.  Roger  took  her  hand,  and  tWs 
time  she  did  not  withdraw  it. 

"  We  are  so  hard,  all  of  us  I "  she  murmured,  softly. 
"  We  call  not  to  mind  that  our  God  is  a  God  of  love, 
and  the  fruit  of  the  spirit  is  gentleness.  We  forget 
oftentimes  the  simple  law  of  charity  to  our  neighbours." 

"  Mistress  Alice,"  said  Roger,  as  she  wiped  away  her 
tears,  "  what  is  it  hath  moved  you  to-day  ?  You  have 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  105 

comforted  me  so  wondrously,  I  would  fain  see  if  I  cannot 
bring  you  help.  Tell  me  your  grief,  I  pray  you." 

"  It  is  nought,  it  is  nought,"  she  answered,  hastily. 
"  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  good  opinion  you  have  of  me, 
Master  Sparowe.  Only — I  would  fain  think  as  Kezia 
doth  in  all  matters,  and  I  cannot  do  it.  Even  she  is  not 
always  right." 

Alice's  usual  trouble  had  befallen  her.  She  had  been 
obliged  to  submit  that  morning  to  a  sharper  lecture 
than  usual  from  Kezia,  for  sickness  had  not  improved 
the  elder  sister's  temper.  The  day  before,  Alice  had 
ventured  to  remain  at  home,  to  nurse  the  dying  child  of 
one  of  the  cottagers,  instead  of  accompanying  the  rest 
of  the  household  to  the  weekly  exercise ;  and  Kezia, 
being  unable  to  go  herself,  had  been  all  the  more  rigidly 
determined  to  send  every  other  member  of  the  family. 
Great  was  her  wrath  when  she  discovered  the  bad 
example  Alice  had  set. 

"  Tis  well  for  me,"  said  Roger,  with  a  little  smile, 
"  that  you  think  not  like  your  sister,  Mistress  Alice,  in 
all  things.  For  she  holdeth,  as  I  well  know,  that  I  am 
still  in  the  bond  of  iniquity ;  but  you,  I  trow  have  softer 
thoughts  of  me." 

"  The  Apostle  Paul  bids  us  be  in  love  and  charity 
with  all  men "...  began  Alice,  and  stopped,  blushing 
crimson. 

"  But  even  he  had  a  particular  affection  towards 
some,"  interrupted  Roger.  "Ah,  Mistress  Alice,  if  I 
could"  .  .  . 

"  The  master  desires  your  honour's  presence." 

Roger  turned  and  saw  behind  him  the  same  serving 
man,  who  had  already  interrupted  him  in  the  dining  hall. 
This  time  there  was  an  unmistakeable  grin  on  the  man's 
face,  and  an  amused  look  in  his  eyes  that  galled  Roger 
exceedingly.  Without  doubt  he  had  overheard  some 
part  of  the  conversation,  how  much  Roger  could  not 
tell.  The  young  man's  cheeks  tingled  with  shame,  as  he 
took  leave  of  Alice  with  a  stately  bow,  and  followed  the 
servant  to  the  hall. 

Master   Burroughs  was   wholly   unprepared  for  the 


106  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

communication  Roger  nerved  himself  to  make.  He  was 
comfortably  rid  of  his  importunate  suitor,  and  when 
Roger  entered,  he  was  sitting  in  his  huge,  leathern 
armchair,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  stroking  his  beard 
complacently.  His  curiosity  was  agreeably  whetted  to 
know  what  more  Roger  could  have  to  say  to  him.  No 
suspicion  that  Roger  and  Alice  were  otherwise  than 
religiously  concerned  each  for  the  spiritual  welfare  of 
the  other  had  ever  crosssd  his  mind.  Besides,  Alice, 
though  now  grown  to  woman's  estate,  was  still  a  child 
in  his  eyes.  A  mother  would  long  ere  this  have  divined 
the  reason  of  the  young  man's  frequent  visits,  and  even 
Kezia  had  begun  to  wonder  why  he  came  so  often.  But 
fathers  are  usually  the  last  to  take  cognizance  of  such 
delicate  matters. 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  he  exclaimed  at  last.  "  Your 
many  words  bewilder  me  sorely.  This  matter  hath 
come  so  suddenly  upon  me  that  I  know  not  what  to  say 
thereto." 

"  Methought  you  would  have  seen "...  faltered 
Roger. 

"  Seen  ?  and  what,  I  pray  you  ?  Hath  my  daughter, 
forsooth,  so  far  forgotten  herself  as  to  give  you  tokens, 
meetings,  and  such  like  ?" 

"  Nay,  sir,  none,"  answered  Roger,  frankly.  "  We 
have  not  seen  each  other,  save  in  your  presence.  Until 
you  bade  me  go  to  her  in  the  garden  a  while  since,  I 
have  never  spoken  to  her  alone." 

11  Truly  I  saw  that  you  came  here  oftener  than  other 
of  my  friends,"  said  the  old  man,  after  a  pause, 
"  and  I  rejoiced  at  it.  I  thought  that  you  desired  to 
be  refreshed  by  the  sight  of  our  Christian  walk  and 
conversation." 

"  So  was  it,  sir,"  replied  Roger.  "  I  have  been  greatly 
edified  by  the  Christian  exercises  in  this  household, 
nevertheless  your  sweet  daughter  "... 

"  My  sweet  daughter ! "  retorted  Master  Burroughs. 
"  Hath  it  come  as  far  as  that  ?  Alice  then  hath 
shown  herself  unmaidenly  and  forward — hath  encouraged 
you." 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  107 

"  Never ! "  exclaimed  Roger,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  Think  as  you  will  of  me,  sir,  but  beware  how  you 
impute  blame  to  her." 

Master  Nehemiah's  face  relaxed.  He  began  to 
accustom  himself  to  the  extraordinary  idea  of  a  Puritan 
in  love. 

"  How  stands  she  affected  to  you,  my  son  ?  Tell  me 
truly." 

"  I  know  not,"  returned  Roger,  with  a  sigh.  "  She  is 
kind  and  gracious  to  me,  but  so  she  is  to  all.  How 
dare  I  take  to  myself  a  sweet  word  or  look,  when  the 
same  is  bestowed  upon  the  next  beggar  who  asketh  an 
alms  ?  " 

Master  Burroughs  walked  to  the  window,  and  stood 
debating  the  matter  with  himself. 

"  Against  you  I  have  nought,  Master  Roger,  save  that 
the  question  hath  been  too  suddenly  brought  forward. 
In  an  affair  of  such  moment,  much  prayer  and  many 
searchings  of  heart  are  needed.  I  must  seek  counsel 
from  the  Lord.  But — I  am  fain  to  tell  you  at  once — 
I  lighted  this  morning  on  the  text :  '  Can  two  walk 
together  except  they  be  agreed  ? '  the  which  can  have 
but  one  application.  Doubtless  'twas  sent  me  as  a 
sign." 

"  I  beseech  you,  sir,"  exclaimed  Roger,  hastily,  "  reject 
me  not  because  of  a  chance  opening  of  the  Bible.  We 
will  be  agreed,  Mistress  Alice  and  I ;  she  can  desire 
nought  that  I  will  not  do." 

"  Young  man,"  returned  Master  Burroughs,  solemnly, 
"would  you  call  in  question  the  Scriptural  custom  of 
casting  lots  ?  You  advance  not  your  cause  thereby. 
And  as  touching  agreement,  how  can  such  be  between 
you,  when  you  would  take  my  daughter  to  the  house  of 
that  Popish  woman,  your  mother  ?  " 

"  My  mother  is  no  Papist.  Oh,  sir,  beseech  you, 
speak  not  of  her !  She  hath  done  you  no  wrong.  And 
if  Alice — Mistress  Alice,  I  would  say  "... 

"  Further  more,"  continued  Master  Burroughs,  "  you 
are  guilty  of  harbouring  that  rank  Malignant  and 
defamer  of  true  religion,  your  brother  Walter." 


108  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  My  brother  and  I  have  quarrelled,"  answered  Roger, 
turning  crimson.  "  It  needs  not  to  speak  of  him.  He, 
I  trow,  will  scarce  desire  to  cross  my  threshold  again." 

"  And  yet  you  would  undertake  a  toilsome  journey  to 
London  to  have  news  of  him,"  said  the  other,  glancing 
sharply  at  Roger.  "  Ye  be  strange  folk,  ye  Sparowes. 
For  your  mother's  sake,  say  you.  Well,  be  it  so. 
Natheless,"  he  continued,  in  a  mollified  tone,  "  since  he 
will  trouble  us  no  more,  and  your  mother  perchance 
may  be  won  over  to  forsake  her  evil  ways,  and  your 
household  be  thereby  purified, — it  may  be, — I  must  have 
time.  I  will  consider  more  closely  of  the  matter." 

Master  Burroughs  stroked  his  short  grey  beard  with 
a  satisfied  air.  He  had  a  strong  dislike  to  innocent 
Mistress  Margaret,  considering  her,  with  her  dainty, 
extravagant  ways  and  invincible  attachment  to  the  pro- 
scribed Church,  a  most  blameworthy  woman.  But  her 
prelatical  tendencies  could  not  blind  him  to  the  advan- 
tages of  the  proposed  connection  with  her  son.  Strict 
Puritan  as  he  was,  Master  Burroughs  did  not  overlook 
the  fact  that  Roger  Sparowe  was  socially  above  him. 
A  parvenu  himself,  he  was  inclined  rather  to  overrate 
than  depreciate  the  prestige  of  ancient  birth  and 
honourable  lineage.  And  Roger  Sparowe,  though  only 
a  country  squire,  could  boast  of  noble  descent  and  broad 
lands,  then  the  most  precious  of  worldly  possessions. 
The  more  he  thought  the  matter  over,  the  more  feasible, 
nay  desirable,  did  it  appear. 

Something  of  these  favourable  dispositions  Master 
Nehemiah  allowed  Roger  to  see;  and  as  he  took  his 
homeward  way,  the  young  man  was  not  wholly  in 
despair.  For  a  time  he  had  thrown  off  the  burden  of 
his  cares  and  troubles.  True,  they  all  came  thronging 
back  upon  him,  as  he  rode  down  the  long  street  that 
led  to  the  heart  of  the  town  ;  but  he  was  able  to  put 
a  brave  face  upon  them.  There  were  two  tangible 
sources  of  comfort.  Mistress  Alice  had  been  kinder 
and  sweeter  than  ever  before ;  her  father  had  not  per- 
emptorily rejected  him.  His  conversation  with  Alice 
had  not  been  exactly  lovers'  talk,  but  something  far 


ALICE'S  GARDEN.  109 

higher  and  sweeter.  Thinking  it  over,  and  recalling 
hungrily  every  look  and  every  tone,  hope  revived  within 
him.  With  Alice's  help  he  did  not  doubt  to  overcome 
Master  Burroughs'  objection  to  Mistress  Sparowe ;  and 
a  home  blest  with  the  presence  of  mother  and  wife 
would  be  like  heaven  on  earth. 

Walter  was  the  difficulty.  He  had  declared  that  his 
brother  should  darken  his  threshold  no  more.  But  what 
if  Walter  were  in  trouble,  and  came  and  asked  for 
shelter, — how  could  he  turn  him  away  ?  The  thing  was 
impossible. 

What  would  become, — what  had  become  of  Walter  ? 


110 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

AN    UNEXPECTED     GUEST. 


MISTRESS  MARGARET  stood  watching  her  son  with  a 
smile,  as  he  rode  off  down  the  street.  A  glow  of 
motherly  pride  flushed  her  soft  cheeks,  as  he  turned  the 
corner  leading  to  the  Cornhill,  and  looked  back  to  wave 
farewell.  Roger  always  appeared  at  his  best  on  horse- 
back, and  to-day  he  was  almost  handsome.  But  his 
mother's  smile  was  quickly  followed  by  a  sigh  over  both 
her  sons,  and  Mistress  Margaret  stepped  back  into  the 
great  hall,  where  old  Joan  was  mending  a  pile  of  house- 
hold linen  in  a  sunny  corner.  Joan's  eyes  had  failed  her 
of  late,  a  grievous  matter  before  the  introduction  of 
spectacles.  Still,  she  stoutly  maintained  that  she  could 
see  as  well  as  a  young  girl,  and  to  prove  her  words,  she 
kept  in  her  own  hands  the  repair  of  the  house  linen,  and 
often  cobbled  it  woefully  in  the  process. 

"  Busy,  Joan,  always  busy,"  said  Mistress  Margaret, 
after  watching  her  a  few  moments.  "  Dost  never  give 
those  quick  hands  of  thine  any  rest?" 

"  Never,  Mistress,"  answered  Joan.  "  Nimble  fingers 
make  a  light  heart.  I  think  not  so  much  on  all  the 
trouble  that  hath  come,  and  that  is  for  to  come,  when  I 
sit  a  sewing." 

Joan,  in  her  homely  way,  was  like  a  seventeenth 
century  Cassandra ;  she  was  always  predicting  disaster. 

"And  wherefore  should  further  trouble  come  upon 
us  ? "  said  Mistress  Margaret.  "  Have  we  not  had 
enough  already,  and  to  spare  ?  Now  that  these  sour- 
minded  fanatics  have  turned  Roger's  head,  they  may 
surely  be  content." 

"Have  ye  news  of  Master  Walter?"  asked  Joan, 
sharply.  "  No,  nor  never  will  have.  Did  he  not  cross 
the  threshold  with  his  left  foot  first  ?  And  hath  a  man 


AN    UNEXPECTED    GUEST.  Ill 

ever  been  known  to  do  such  a  thing,  and  not  bring  evil 
upon  himself?  " 

In  her  present  depressed  state  of  mind,  such  dismal 
croakings  were  more  than  Mistress  Sparowe  could  bear. 
Leaving  Joan  still  muttering  to  herself,  she  went  to  the 
still  room  and  buttery.  Her  operations  were  in  full 
progress  for  preserving  fruits  and  distilling  strong  waters 
from  flowers  and  herbs.  Mistress  Margaret,  town  born 
and  town  bred,  had  never  attained  to  the  perfect  house- 
keeping which  distinguished  her  country  neighbours  ;  but 
her  dainty  ways,  and  desire  to  have  everything  about 
her  of  the  best,  made  her  bestow  as  much  care  on  it  as 
they  did.  To-day,  however,  in  spite  of  her  desire  to 
test  a  new  recipe  for  preserving  apples,  nothing  went  to 
her  mind.  In  despair,  she  forsook  her  stew  pans  and 
pipkins,  and  determined  to  use  the  fine  afternoon,  and 
Roger's  absence,  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  friend.  There  was 
nothing,  she  thought,  like  a  long  confidential  gossip,  to 
relieve  one's  mind. 

Half-an-hour  after  her  departure  a  traveller,  covered 
with  mud  and  dust  from  head  to  foot,  on  a  limping 
horse  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  drop  by  the  way,  rode 
up  to  the  great  house.  Two  serving  men  lounged  about 
the  door,  enjoying  the  fresh  evening  air,  and  to  one  of 
them  the  newcomer  tossed  his  reins,  as  he  wearily 
dismounted.  His  hat  was  slouched  over  his  face,  and 
his  torn  and  dirty  cloak  wrapped  so  closely  round  him 
that  the  man,  when  questioned  afterwards  in  the  kitchen 
who  this  strange  apparition  might  be,  declared  that 
he  could  not  be  sure  if  it  were  Master  Walter  or 
not.  Joan  had  no  such  doubts.  She  had  just  folded  a 
cloth  of  finest  home-spun  linen,  and  though  her  eyes 
ached  sorely,  she  saw  with  delight  that  the  darning 
stitches  were  as  even  and  close  as  in  her  best  days.  As 
she  was  exulting  in  the  thought  that  the  napery  would 
now  last  her  young  masters  their  life  time,  a  sudden 
noise  made  her  raise  her  head. 

Before  her,  sound  in  body  and  limb,  though  haggard 
and  worn  like  a  man  of  double  his  years,  stood  Walter 
Sparowe.  His  leather  jerkin  was  soiled,  and  stained,  in 


112  A   KINO'S   RANSOM. 

some  places  with  blood ;  the  delicate  lace,  which  Joan 
herself  had  washed  and  starched  for  the  journey,  hung 
in  shreds;  while  as  for  his  wide  boots,  they  were  so 
coated  with  dust  and  dirt  that  Joan  would  take  her 
Bible  oath,  she  said  afterwards,  that  they  had  never 
been  cleaned  since  he  went. 

"  Mercy  on  us,  Master  Walter !  "  she  screamed,  "  is't 
you  or  your  ghost  ?  Oh,  honey,  look  at  your  beautiful 
lace !  and  your  coat,  too,  with  the  blood  on't  1  The 
Saints — no,  the  Lord  be  praised,  that  you  are  back  safe, 
though  you  went  out  left  foot  first.  A  plague  on 
those  lying  proverbs.  Ne'er  will  I  believe  one  of  them 
again." 

And  Joan,  in  the  fulness  of  her  ecstacy,  flung  herself 
into  Walter's  arms,  and  began  to  kiss  the  sleeve  of  his 
coat.  Walter  put  her  abruptly  from  him. 

"  My  mother  ?  "  he  asked,  anxiously.  "  Where  is  my 
mother  ?  And  Roger  ?  is  he  here  ?  " 

"  The  squire,  say  you  ?  He  hath  gone  for  an  airing 
to  Mote  End,  I  heard  tell " — here  Joan  smiled  archly. 
"  But  the  mistress  is  not  far  to  seek.  She  hath  grieved 
for  you  night  and  day  ;  she  will  be  beside  herself  for  joy 
when  she  sees  you  safe  and  well.  I  will  fetch  her  in  a 
trice ;  she  hath  but  stepped  round  to  her  gossip's." 

"  Do  it  not ! "  exclaimed  Walter,  sternly,  stepping 
between  her  and  the  door,  when  he  found  he  could  stop 
her  torrent  of  words  in  no  other  way.  "  'Tis  at  thy  peril, 
if  thou  stir  from  hence.  I  want  neither  mother  nor 
brother,  only  to  be  left  alone." 

Poor  Joan  shrank  back,  appalled  at  such  rough  usage. 
For  a  moment  she  doubted  whether  it  were  really 
Walter,  who  had  never  spoken  sharply  to  her  in  his  life, 
or  his  wraith.  He  was  white  enough  for  a  ghost,  any- 
way ;  even  Joan  could  not  mistake  the  look  of  utter 
exhaustion  in  his  eyes. 

"  Fool  that  I  am  !  "  she  cried.  "  While  I  stand  prating 
here,  you  are  like  to  drop  with  hunger.  Wait  but  one 
moment,  honey,  and  I  will  bring  you  food." 

"  Thou  shalt  not  go,"  cried  Walter,  arresting  her  a 
second  time  as  she  was  hobbling  off  to  the  kitchen.  "  I 


AN    UNEXPECTED    GUEST.  113 

am  neither  hungry  nor  weary,"  he  added,  in  a  voice  that 
belied  his  words.  "  Good  Joan,  I  need  nothing  but  to 
be  left  in  peace.  Come  back  to  thy  work,"  he  continued, 
leading  her  to  the  chair  from  which  she  had  just  risen, 
"  and  sew  for  thy  life.  Stir  not  from  thy  seat,  what- 
ever betide  and  if  thou  see  any  one,  say  not  that  I  am 
within." 

Poor  Joan,  terrified  out  of  her  wits,  and  now  firmly 
convinced  that  she  had  to  deal  not  with  Walter,  but  with 
an  evil  spirit  in  his  shape,  sat  down  and  waited  for 
what  would  happen  next.  So  completely  had  the  young 
man  overawed  her,  that  she  dared  not  even,  as  she 
afterwards  declared,  turn  her  head  for  a  moment,  and 
therefore  could  only  judge  by  the  sound  that  he  crossed 
the  hall,  and  passed  softly  down  the  steps  which  led  to 
the  withdrawing  room. 

Walter  Sparowe's  first  act,  when  he  was  out  of  ear- 
shot, was  to  lock  and  bolt  the  door  behind  him.  By  so 
doing,  he  cut  off  all  communication  between  the  entrance 
hall,  and  the  family  sitting  rooms.  To  reach  the  upper 
floor  from  thence  was  now  only  possible  by  crossing  the 
court-yard,  and  mounting  a  narrow  flight  of  steps  hard 
by  the  door  of  the  huge  kitchen.  These  steps  led  by  a 
back  way  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  gallery  with  latticed 
windows,  that  ran  round  three  sides  of  the  house. 
Having  secured  the  door,  Walter  passed  to  the  inner 
wainscotted  room,  and  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
drew  a  small  dagger  from  his  belt,  and  began  to  loosen 
the  wedge-shaped  projection,  above  the  shield  with  the 
family  arms,  which  was  carved  over  the  chimney  piece. 
Partly  from  fatigue,  and  partly  from  agitation,  his 
fingers  trembled  so  much  that  the  business  took  him  far 
longer  than  need  was,  though  he  fumbled  with  the 
dagger,  and  an  oath  or  two  escaped  him  at  his  own 
clumsiness. 

At  length  the  inner  recess  was  opened,  and  Walter 
immediately  thurst  his  hand  in,  and  snapped  the  spring. 
The  same  whirring  sound  was  heard  as  before,  but  un- 
accompanied this  time  by  any  creaking.  Care  had 
evidently  been  taken,  since  the  first  discovery  of  the 

i 


114  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

passage,  to  oil  the  hinges  of  the  panel,  and  not  the  least 
jarring  noise  betrayed  the  secret.  Walter  stayed  a 
moment  to  replace  the  wedge,  then  hurried  round  to 
the  cupboard.  The  door  was  open,  fortunately.  There 
was  no  necessity  for  him  to  force  it  with  his  dagger,  as 
he  was  evidently  prepared  to  do.  Entering,  he  closed 
it  after  him,  struck  a  light  with  a  tinder  box  he  carried, 
lit  a  piece  of  wood  he  found  in  a  corner  of  the  cupboard, 
and  fixed  it  carefully  immediately  in  front  of  the  panel. 

A  long  time  now  elapsed.  Walter  Sparowe  crouched 
beside  the  passage,  straining  his  ears  for  the  least 
sound  that  broke  the  stillness.  His  handsome,  usually 
irresolute  face  was  drawn  up  with  intense  expectation, 
the  moisture  stood  on  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  had  a 
look  of  feverish  anxiety.  His  large,  soft  white  hands, 
of  which  he  had  always  been  inordinately  proud,  were 
soiled  and  bruised,  and  trembling  with  nervous  excite- 
ment. From  time  to  time  he  put  his  head  to  the 
ground,  and  held  his  breath  to  hear,  then  raised  himself 
again  with  a  long  gasping  sigh.  Once  a  sudden  thought 
seemed  to  strike  him.  He  sprang  lightly  up,  and 
hurried  off  to  close  the  latticed  window  that  looked 
towards  the  garden,  and  to  satisfy  himself  that  the  door 
between  the  two  rooms,  leading  into  the  court-yard,  was 
securely  bolted.  Then  he  came  back,  and  took  up  his 
position  again  beside  the  opening. 

At  length  he  caught  the  sound  of  a  feint  thud,  as  if  a 
door  at  a  great  distance  were  softly  closed.  Knowing 
what  to  listen  for,  he  was  next  able  to  distinguish  the 
muffled  tread  of  feet.  The  cautious  footfalls  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  Walter,  in  spite  of  his  anxiety, 
durst  not  thrust  himself  forward,  lest  he  should  shut 
out  the  light.  He  knelt  down  beside  the  panel,  strung 
to  such  a  pitch  of  eager  expectation  that  he  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  Presently  a  low  voice  from  within 
asked :  "  Who  goes  there  ?  " 

"  A  friend  to  Caesar,"  answered  Walter. 

A  man's  head  and  shoulders  now  appeared  through 
the  opening.  Walter  gave  the  new  comer  his  hand,  and 
helped  him  to  disengage  himself  from  the  narrow 


AN    UNEXPECTED    GUEST.  115 

passage.  A  perfect  Hercules  in  build  the  fugitive 
seemed,  as  he  crawled  out,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  began  to 
brush  the  dust  from  his  jerkin  and  hose.  As  he  raised  his 
head,  and  tossed  back  his  long,  dark  curls  with  an 
impatient  gesture,  he  disclosed  the  stern,  grave  features, 
and  keen  eyes  of  Ralph  Wentworth.  Without  a  word 
he  straightened  himself,  stretched  his  long  limbs  for  a 
moment,  then  bent  down  to  help  another  man  who  had 
followed  him,  and  now  crept,  on  hands  and  knees,  out  of 
the  passage. 

The  new  comer  was  younger  than  his  companion,  and 
slenderly  made.  He  did  not  look  more  than  twenty,  and 
was  rather  under  than  above  the  ordinary  height.  His 
complexion,  swarthy  by  nature,  had  become  still  darker 
through  the  dust,  dirt,  and  soot  which  disfigured  it. 
Out  of  this  almost  squalid  face  shone  a  pair  of  brilliant 
black  eyes,  full  of  life  and  spirit,  though  now  heavy  with 
fatigue.  The  young  man's  forehead  was  broad  and  well- 
shaped,  but  his  mouth  was  wide,  and  his  thin  lips  had  a 
cynical  expression.  This  strange  individual  wore  his 
black  hair  closely  cropped  like  a  Puritan's,  and  this, 
coupled  with  his  slight  figure,  made  him  look  almost 
insignificant  beside  the  two  tall,  splendidly  built  men, 
with  their  long  curls,  and  rich  Cavalier  dress,  who 
anxiously  helped  him  to  rise,  and  dusted  the  marks  of 
the  underground  journey  from  his  clothes. 

His  costume  was  as  poverty-stricken  as  his  appearance. 
He  wore  a  dirty  green  doublet,  and  a  pair  of  old 
breeches  hanging  far  below  the  knee.  The  huge,  wide 
boots,  evidently  much  too  large  for  him,  had  been  cut 
and  slashed  to  ease  the  wearer's  feet.  Neither  cuffs  nor 
collar  relieved  his  wretched  attire,  which  was  completed 
by  a  high  grey  felt  hat  without  a  band,  and  stained,  like 
his  jerkin,  with  grease. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  any  of  the  three  men. 
Walter  first  satisfied  himself  that  the  two  guests,  who 
had  arrived  in  this  extraordinary  fashion,  were  unhurt ; 
then  pressing  his  finger  to  his  lips,  he  hastened  to  the 
wainscotted  room,  set  the  spring  in  motion,  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  sliding  panel  glided  again  into  its  place. 


116  A   KINO'S    RANSOM. 

Having  watched  the  closing  of  the  aperture,  and 
extinguished  the  light,  his  companions  followed  him, 
shutting  all  the  doors  carefully  behind  them.  Although 
it  was  still  warm,  summer  weather,  a  small  log  fire  was 
burning  on  the  hearth,  and  a  welcome  sight  it  seemed  to 
both  men.  The  younger  traveller  yawned,  stretched  his 
stiff  limbs,  and  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair  Walter 
had  pushed  towards  the  fire.  Wentworth,  after  rubbing 
his  hands  for  a  moment  over  the  blaze,  began  to  make 
a  careful  examination  of  the  room,  to  guard  against  the 
danger  of  a  surprise. 

Meanwhile  Walter  bolted  the  door,  and  approaching 
the  man  by  the  fire  with  an  air  of  great  deference, 
dropped  on  one  knee,  took  his  hand,  and  kissed  it 
respectfully. 

"  Nay,  good  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  raising  himself 
wearily,  "  this  is  not  wise,  even  among  friends.  I  am 
but  plain  Will  Somers,  at  your  service.  Tis  I  rather 
who  am  beholden  to  you  for  our  deliverance.  My 
thanks  shall  not  be  wanting  when  I  am  somewhat 
recovered  from  our  lengthy  journey  through  "  Tartarus." 

"  The  honour  is  sufficient "...  began  Walter. 

"  Faith,  I  was  never  better  pleased  than  when  our 
good  Wentworth  here  espied  your  light,"  interrupted  the 
other,  a  smile  lighting  up  his  tired  face.  "  Twas  as 
welcome  as  land  to  a  shipwrecked  sailor." 

Wentworth  now  came  back  from  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  taking  Walter  aside,  earnestly  inquired  if  the 
garden  was  safe. 

"  Save  for  the  maids,  we  are  alone  in  the  house  for 
an  hour  or  two,"  answered  Walter.  "  By  special  favour 
of  Providence  or  the  Saints,  my  mother  and  brother  are 
both  from  home." 

Reassured  on  this  point,  Wentworth  approached  the 
fire,  and  joined  in  the  conversation. 

"  I  thought  many  a  time  our  strength  would  fail,"  he 
said.  "  Thou  hadst  not  prepared  me,  Walter,  for  the 
length  of  the  way,  nor  the  stifling  heat  of  the  vault. 
Twas  your  patience  and  courage,  sir,  alone,  which 
brought  us  through.  Nothing  can  shake  your  fortitude." 


AN    UNEXPECTED    GUEST.  117 

"  I  am  used  to  it,  Ralph,  more  used  than  thou,  per- 
chance," said  the  other,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  My  head 
is  in  jeopardy,  if  I  lose  heart.  How  say  you,  Master 
Sparowe  ?  If  a  man  know  that  those  dogs  of  Puritans 
are  at  his  heels,  and  that  his  own  skin  will  pay  for  it, 
think  you  not  he  is  like  to  keep  up  his  courage,  and  to 
adventure  himself  into  the  very  jaws  of  hell  ?  " 

"  Your  Majesty  "...  began  Walter  again,  diffidently. 
"  Majesty  me  not,"  returned  his  companion,  good 
humouredly,  leaning  back  in  the  arm  chair,  and  stretch- 
ing his  feet  towards  the  fire.  "  You  do  but  mock  at  me, 
my  friend.  I  am  lord  over  nothing,  not  even  over  that 
which  a  man  holdeth  to  be  verily  his  own,  his  body, 
to  wit.  How  many  times,  Ralph,"  he  continued, 
with  a  droll  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  "dost  think  I  must 
hear  the  tale  of  mine  own  death  and  burial  ?  How 
many  times  shall  I  be  shown  the  very  coat  in  the  which 
I  was  killed  ?  " 

"  You  are  pleased  to  jest,  sir,"  said  Wentworth, 
gravely,  "  but  the  peril  wherein  we  stand  is  as  great  as 
ever,  and  precious  time  is  passing.  Thou  hast  brought 
us  hither,  Walter,  upon  promise  of  safety  ;  tell  me  now, 
how  and  where  dost  thou  propose  to  hide  us  ?  " 

"  Ralph  Wentworth,"  said  his  fellow-refugee,  solemnly, 
"  there  is  a  yet  greater  danger  than  any  thou  wottest  of, 
the  danger,  namely,  that  this  worthless  body  of  mine 
will  perish  of  hunger,  whilst  thou  art  casting  about  for 
some  place  of  concealment  for  it.  Good  Master  Walter, 
I  am  assailed  at  this  moment  by  a  most  unkingly 
appetite  for  food,  and  I  doubt  not  Wentworth  hath 
the  like,  though  he  will  not  avow  it.  Is  it  possible, 
think  you,  in  this  house — to  judge  by  this  room,  a  right 
noble  house — to  have  a  morsel  of  bread  and  a  draught 
of  ale  ?  " 

It  was  noticeable  that,  utterly  weary  as  both  Walter 
and  Ralph  Wentworth  were,  neither  of  them  offered  to 
sit  down.  Wentworth  held  himself  painfully  erect,  but 
Walter  leant,  exhausted,  against  the  chimney  as  he 
answered,  "  I  crave  your  pardon,  my  liege.  The  business 
of  procuring  entrance  for  you  was  so  urgent,  and  I 


118  A   KING'S   RANSOM. 

feared  so  many  difficulties,  now  happily  overcome,  that 
I  bestowed  no  thought  upon  the  food.  'Twas  a  hard 
gallop  from  Alnesbourne,  to  be  here  in  time  to  open  the 
way." 

"True,  most  true,  my  friend;  my  necessities  make 
me  forget  myself.  Nevertheless  this  question  of  refresh- 
ment, though  but  a  minor  matter,  hath  also  to  my  mind 
some  degree  of  urgency." 

"  It  shall  be  seen  to  on  the  instant,  sir,"  said  Went- 
worth.  "Whom  hast  thou  told,  Walter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  None,"  answered  Walter.  "  I  had  but  time  to  come 
straight  in  hither  from  the  road.  None  saw  me  but  Joan, 
who  sat  in  the  great  hall,  and  her  I  charged  to  remain 
at  her  needle,  and  not  to  stir  hand  or  foot.  She  will  sit 
there,  good  faithful  soul,  I  doubt  not,  until  such  time  as 
I  give  her  leave  to  move." 

"  But  peradventure  thy  mother  may  return  ?  " 

Walter  shook  his  head  with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  trow 
not,"  he  said,  "  She  is  not  wont  to  return  soon,  when 
she  goeth  to  her  gossips.  I  have  known  the  business 
there  to  last  till  nightfall.  Doubtless  she  hath  much 
to  unburden  herself  of,  with  all  the  tale  of  my  evil 
deeds." 

"  And  Roger  ?  " 

"  My  Puritan  brother  hath  gone  to  Mote  End,  and  ere 
this  hath  assuredly  lost  all  count  of  time.  Thou  canst 
judge  for  thyself  when  he  will  be  back." 

"  Jest  not,  Walter,  touching  so  solemn  a  matter,"  said 
Wentworth,  who  was  too  anxious  about  the  safety  of  his 
companion  to  bear  the  least  approach  to  levity.  "  It 
seemeth  then,  from  thy  words,"  he  continued,  after  a 
moment's  reflection,  "  that  we  are  safe  from  them  for 
some  hours,  and  may  make  our  plans  without  fear  of 
disturbance." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  young  man  from  the  depths  of 
the  arm-chair,  behind  which  this  conversation  was 
carried  on,  "  lay  what  plans  you  please.  Only  I 
would  warn  you  that  you  will  soon  have  none  to  lay 
them  for.  A  man  who  hath  not  had  a  dinner  for  three 
days  is  not  worth  saving.  By  my  halidome,  good 


AN    UNEXPECTED    GUEST.  119 

sirs,  I,  me  seems,  who  have  escaped  by  a  miracle 
.from  the  clutches  of  Sultan  Oliver,  must  now  strike 
my  colours  to  King  Hunger." 

"Your  pardon,  my  gracious  liege, "answered  Wentworth, 
penitently,"  I  did  but  seek  to  know  the  present  disposition 
of  the  family.  Now  Walter,  lad,  set  thy  wits  to  work. 
How  canst  thou  convey  to  us  food  from  the  buttery 
without  raising  suspicion  ?  " 

"  Through  Joan,"  was  Walter's  reply.  "  "Tis  an  easy 
matter.  I  will  bid  her  bring  me  food  and  drink  for  two 
friends  of  mine  who  have  come  hither." 

"  Hold !  "  exclaimed  Wentworth,  as  Walter  turned  to 
give  the  order.  "  Joan,  thou  sayest,  hast  been  all  this 
while  in  the  hall.  She  will  marvel  by  what  way  thy 
friends  have  come,  since  she  hath  not  seen  them  enter, 
and  will  gossip  thereof  with  the  maids.  No,  Walter, 
thy  plan  is  bad.  Devise  another." 

"  Let  me  tell  her  boldly  that  I  am  seized  with  a  raging 
hunger,  that  I  have  not  tasted  food  or  drink  for  days — 
which  was  not  far  from  the  truth — and  swear  that  all 
the  meat  in  the  buttery  will  not  satisfy  me." 

"  Ay,  man,  well  said,"  put  in  the  hungry  guest  from 
the  fire,  "  and  then  "... 

"  Then  she  will  place  the  best  in  the  house  before  me, 
and  when  I  have  dismissed  her,  I  will  bring  that  which 
she  provides  in  hither." 

"  Do  so,  friend,  and  earn  my  lasting  thanks.  How 
now,  Ralph,"  said  the  young  man  whom,  eschewing  all 
party  epithets,  we  will  call  simply  Charles  Stuart,  "what 
sayest  thou  ?  Art  thou  not  thyself  a  prey  to  these 
pangs  of  hunger,  though  thou  dost  affect  to  make 
light  of  them  ?  Thou  likewise  hast  not  broken  thy  fast 
since  dawn." 

"  My  liege,"  answered  Wentworth,  as  he  came  back 
after  bolting  the  door,  "  my  concern  for  your  welfare 
is  so  great,  that  I  have  no  thought  to  bestow  on 
myself.  I  know  not  whether  I  be  tired  or  hungry.  I 
know  only  that  your  Majesty  is,  for  a  few  hours  at 
most,  in  safety." 

"  Why,  the  devil  take  it,  friend,"  returned  Charles, 


120  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  a  man  hath  but  one  life.  And  truly  mine  hath  been  so 
often  jeopardized,  the  demise  of  the  Crown,  so  to  speak, 
hath  been  so  frequently  certified  to  by  these  lying 
Puritan  knaves,  that  I  doubt  me  at  times  whether  I  am 
verily  in  the  flesh  or  no.  This  poor  body  of  mine  doth 
not  deserve  the  care  my  friends  bestow  on  it." 

Wentworth  was  about  to  answer  and  to  protest 
against  the  unprecedented  view  his  royal  master  took 
of  the  matter.  But  at  this  moment  there  was  a  low 
knock  at  the  door,  and  Walter,  giving  the  pass  word  : 
"  A  friend  to  Caesar,"  was  immediately  admitted.  In  one 
hand  he  carried  a  noble  chine  of  beef  on  a  wooden 
platter,  in  the  other  a  jug  of  home-brewed  ale.  Under 
one  arm  was  an  enormous  loaf  of  coarse,  unsifted  bread 
— very  little  white  bread  being  used  in  those  days,  even 
in  gentlemen's  houses — while  upon  the  other  was  hung 
a  cloth  of  finest  home-spun  linen. 

"  Now,  all  the  Saints  be  with  thee,  man  !  "  cried 
Charles,  starting  joyfully  from  his  seat.  "  Thou  art  the 
very  harbinger  of  plenty.  Fain  would  I  dub  thee,  like 
my  grandsire,  a  knight  on  the  spot,  for  this  loyal  service 
of  thine,  did  I  not  fear  such  an  honour  would  bring  thee 
to  trouble." 

And  with  his  own  royal  hands  which  were  so  begrimed 
with  dirt  that  nothing  but  their  shape  attested  the  kingly 
blood  in  them,  he  helped  to  relieve  Walter  of  his  burden. 
But  when  it  came  to  spreading  the  table  with  Mistress 
Margaret's  delicate  napery,  the  vivid  contrast  between 
it,  and  the  hands  and  faces  of  those  who  were  about  to 
use  it,  made  them  pause. 

"  There  needed  not  this  display  of  luxury,  my  friend," 
said  Charles,  with  a  smile.  "  My  last  meal  was  eaten 
on  the  floor,  out  of  an  earthen  pipkin." 

"  Methought,  since  it  pleased  your  Majesty  to  grace 
our  humble  table,"  answered  Walter,  "  that  'twas  well 
to  bring  it." 

Charles  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Then  since  it 
is  so,  we  must  suit  ourselves  to  our  circumstances,"  he 
answered.  "  How  now,  Ralph  ?  Is  it  safe  to  wash  off 
some  part  of  the  soil  of  our  journey  ?  Are  we  here  in 


AN    UNEXPECTED    GUEST.  121 

such  security  that  I  may  rejoice  in  the  comfort  of  a 
clean  skin  ?  " 

Wentworth  hesitated  a  moment,  as  if  the  dirt  were 
actually  too  necessary  a  part  of  his  master's  disguise  to 
be  lightly  discarded.  Receiving  an  assurance  from 
Walter  that,  so  far,  they  were  alone  in  the  house,  he 
consented  to  go  into  the  next  room,  Charles  casting  an 
affectionate  glance  as  they  passed,  upon  the  chine  of 
beef.  Here,  without  bestowing  a  thought  upon  his  own 
travel-stained  condition,  Wentworth  knelt  down,  and 
drew  off  his  master's  boots,  while  Walter  flitted  between 
the  two  rooms,  laying  the  meal  in  rough,  soldier-like 
fashion,  and  listening  anxiously  from  time  to  time  at  the 
door  which  led  to  the  hall. 

When  the  two  travellers  reappeared,  both  several 
shades  fairer  of  complexion,  Charles  eagerly  attacked 
the  huge  joint.  So  intent  was  he  on  satisfying  his 
hunger,  that  he  did  not  discover  for  some  time  that 
his  two  companions  had  neither  of  them  joined  him. 
Looking  up  then,  he  perceived  that  Wentworth  and 
Walter  were  standing  on  either  side  of  him  in  respectful 
silence.  Such  a  stretch  of  deference  Charles  would 
by  no  means  permit,  but  it  was  not  till  he  had 
commanded  them  on  their  allegiance,  that  the  two 
consented  to  sit  down,  and  eat  at  the  same  table. 
In  spite,  however,  of  his  anxiety,  and  of  his  pro- 
testations that  he  needed  nothing,  Wentworth  did 
ample  justice  to  the  meal,  and  Walter  seconded  him 
vigorously.  Their  hunger  allayed,  they  began  to  hold 
counsel  concerning  the  next  step  to  be  taken  in  the 
present  juncture. 

"  You  have  then  your  mother  with  you,  Master 
Sparowe,"  said  Charles.  "  Is  she  favourably  affected 
towards  us  ?  " 

"  She  is  devoted,  heart  and  soul,  to  your  Majesty's 
cause,"  answered  Walter,  fervently. 

"  Ay,  that  is  well.  Nevertheless  I  rejoice  that  she  is 
from  home  to-day.  In  sooth,  I  care  not  to  present 
myself  before  any  lady  in  this  guise." 

"  But  she  will  return  anon,  and  Roger  likewise,"  said 


122  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Wentworth,  impatiently.  "  Both  will  be  here  ere  we 
can  lay  any  plans  of  concealment." 

Walter  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair  at  the  mention  of 
his  brother's  name.  "  Dost  thou  know,  Ralph,"  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  he  hath  forbid  me  to 
come  hither  ?  " 

"  Nay,  then  are  we  worse  bested  than  ever,"  rejoined 
Wentworth.  "  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  us  now  consider  what 
we  will  do  next,  and  to  whom  we  may  entrust  the  secret 
of  your  presence." 

"  I  understand  you  not,"  answered  Charles,  looking  in 
perplexity  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Who  is  this  Roger 
of  whom  you  speak  ?  Is  not  our  friend  here  master  of 
this  house  ?  " 

"  Would  that  I  were,  my  liege !  "  exclaimed  Walter, 
earnestly,  "  This  poor  dwelling,  and  all  that  it  contains, 
were  then  most  heartily  at  your  disposal.  Alas !  the 
master  here  is  this  same  brother  of  mine,  Roger  Sparowe." 

"  And  is  he  one  of  us  ?  " 

"  No,  forsooth,  but  a  sour-minded  Puritan,  who  hath 
never  a  good  word  for  any  man  who  holdeth  not  with 
him.  And,  truth  to  tell,  for  some  slight  difference  of 
opinion  betwixt  us,  a  trifling  matter  whereat  none  but  he 
had  taken  offence,  he  turned  me  from  the  house,  before 
I  joined  the  good  cause  at  Worcester.  He  will  assuredly 
not  be  well  pleased  to  see  me  again." 

Charles  listened  attentively  to  Walter's  explanation, 
then,  to  the  dismay  of  his  companions,  flung  himself 
back  in  his  chair,  and  gave  vent  to  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  And  so  it  seems  that  thou,  Ralph,  the  cautious,  the 
prudent,  to  whom  my  lord  Wilmot  did  so  solemnly 
entrust  me — that  thou  hast  brought  me  to  the  house 
of  a  Puritan  fanatic.  Into  those  very  jaws  of  death, 
from  which  I  sought  to  escape,  hast  thou  now  led  me. 
By  my  faith,  I  would  not  give  a  straw  for  the  safety  of 
mine  own  neck,  when  this  same  cross-grained  fanatic 
discovereth  my  presence." 

"  Beseech  your  Majesty  not  to  jest  in  so  vital  a 
matter,"  replied  Wentworth,  much  distressed.  "  Hear 
me,  I  pray  you." 


AN    UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  123 

"  Well,  man,  what  hast  thou  to  say  for  thyself  ?  " 
returned  Charles,  still  amused.  "  How  wilt  thou  justify 
this  venture  of  thine  ?  Oh,  if  Wilmot  could  but  see  me 
now,  in  the  very  house  of  a  Puritan  !  " 

"Firstly,  my  liege,"  answered  Wentworth,  "that  I 
was  driven  to  do  it.  By  no  other  than  the  secret  way 
could  we  have  left  Alnesbourne,  the  soldiers  were  so 
close  upon  us.  And  Roger  Sparowe,  though  he  be,  alas ! 
a  Puritan,  is  likewise  my  own  dear  friend.  I  have  known 
him,  and  trusted  him,  since  we  were  boys  together. 
He  is  a  gentleman  of  stainless  birth  and  honour,  who 
would  scorn  to  yield  up  a  fugitive  who  sought  shelter 
with  him.  Walter,  thy  difference  with  thy  brother 
hath  blinded  thee  to  the  nobleness  of  his  nature,  else 
thou  couldest  not  speak  so  harshly  of  him." 

"  Is  this  so  ?  "  asked  Charles.  "  Is  thy  friend  verily 
such  an  one  as  thou  boldest  him  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  would  stake  mine  own  honour  upon  his,"  answered 
Wentworth  emphatically.  "  We  have  been  friends  for 
many  years,  my  liege.  Never  hath  Roger  Sparowe 
failed  any  man  that  trusted  in  him." 

"  If  it  be  as  thou  sayest,  Ralph  "...  began  Charles, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  It  is  so  of  a  truth,  sir." 

"  This  noble-minded  Puritan  gentleman,  then,  is  like 
to  be  sore  exercised  in  his  mind,  when  he  finds  to  what 
purpose  we  have  used  his  house.  It  is  his  desire  to 
stamp  out  the  Malignants,  root  and  branch.  What, 
think  you,  will  he  do  and  say  when  he  hath  the  very 
chief  of  them  in  his  hands  ?  " 

Walter  did  not  speak,  but  Wentworth  answered 
firmly:  "  He  will  do  his  duty,  my  liege,  and  that  right 
honourably." 

"  The  saints  forbid  !  "  returned  Charles,  with  a  laugh. 
"  His  duty,  forsooth  !  His  duty,  good  Ralph,  were  to 
deliver  me  up  to  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace,  and 
win  a  thousand  pounds  thereby.  Ay,  you  may  flinch, 
Master  Walter,  but  so  it  is.  Faith,  I  was  never  worth 
so  much  before." 

"  I  will  run  him  through  the  body  myself,  ere  he  do 


124  A  KINO'S  RANSOM. 

so  dastardly  a  deed,"  cried  Walter.  "  Hear  me,  sir. 
There  needs  not  that  he  should  know  ought  of  the 
matter.  Thou  hast  come  hither,  Ralph,  to  claim  help  of 
him,  and  hast  brought  with  thee  thy  serving  man — I 
crave  your  Majesty's  pardon  that  I  speak  thus  of  you. 
Nought  can  be  simpler  than  the  tale  we  have  to  tell, 
and  Roger,  who  is  guileless  enough,  as  I  well  know, 
will  suspect  nothing," 

"  He  will  suspect  everything,"  replied  Wentworth. 
"  He  will  not  believe  it  for  a  moment.  He  is  no  fool,  is 
thy  brother  Roger.  Thinkest  thou  his  keen  eyes  will 
not  instantly  perceive  that  my  serving  groom  is  no 
common  man  ?  And  his  suspicions  once  set  a'foot,  he 
will  never  rest  till  he  hath  discovered  all." 

"Then  i'  God's  name,  let  him  discover  all,"  said 
Charles.  "  For  my  part,  I  am  weary  of  all  this  con- 
cealment. An  he  be  the  man  thou  sayest,  Ralph,  he 
will  at  least  be  silent,  though  he  cannot  look  on  me  with 
favour.  I  thank  you  both  for  your  care  of  me,  but 
herein  I  only  will  act.  Myself  will  tell  him  the  whole 
truth,  as  soon  as  he  doth  begin  to  suspect." 

On  the  whole,  after  mature  deliberation,  the  boldest 
seemed  also  the  wisest  course.  It  was  agreed  that 
Charles  should  pass  for  the  character  he  had  assumed, 
Will  Somers,  a  groom  in  waiting  upon  the  Cavalier, 
Ralph  Wentworth,  who  had  contrived  to  escape  with 
his  master  from  Worcester.  The  deception  should  be 
carefully  kept  up  with  the  household,  but  as  soon  as 
Roger  showed  signs  of  incredulity,  the  whole  secret 
should  be  frankly  divulged  to  him.  Walter  yielded  the 
more  readily  to  the  better  judgment  of  his  friends, 
because  he  himself  began  to  doubt  the  possibility  of 
blinding  Roger  much  longer  in  this,  or  in  other  matters. 

But  he  strenuously  resisted  the  proposal  that  the 
mystery  should  be  revealed  to  his  mother,  ardent 
Royalist  though  she  was.  Her  very  zeal  would  betray 
them,  he  said.  She  would  not  be  content,  as  they  were, 
to  treat  the  king  before  strangers  with  well-bred 
indifference,  and  would  sooner  risk  the  safety  of  them 
all  than  show  herself,  or  allow  others  to  show,  the  least 


AN    UNEXPECTED    GUEST.  125 

disrespect  towards  him.  She  need  scarcely  see  or  hear 
of  so  insignificant  a  person  as  Will  Somers.  Walter 
promised  soon  to  make  her  forget  his  very  existence ; 
and  he  undertook  so  to  work  upon  her  fears  for  his  own 
and  Wentworth's  safety,  that  he  doubted  not  to  bind 
her  to  silence. 

There  was  still  the  difficult  question  how  far  Joan 
should  be  trusted  with  the  important  secret.  She  had 
such  free  and  constant  access  at  all  hours  to  every  part 
of  the  house,  that  Walter  thought  it  would  be  impossible 
to  keep  her  wholly  in  ignorance.  It  was  determined, 
therefore,  to  take  her  to  a  certain  extent  into  confidence, 
leaving  it  to  the  future  to  determine  how  far  that 
confidence  should  be  extended. 

Matters  being  thus  settled,  as  satisfactorily  as  possible 
under  the  circumstances,  Walter  took  his  two  guests  to 
their  place  of  concealment — the  loft  Roger  had  explored 
with  so  much  astonishment  a  few  days  before.  Walter 
showed  himself  perfectly  acquainted  with  every  corner 
of  the  strange,  rambling  old  attic.  He  pointed  out  the 
passage  over  the  leads,  and  explained  where  it  ended, 
though  he  dared  not  take  the  fugitives  along  it  in  broad 
daylight,  for  fear  of  being  seen  from  the  street. 
Unlocking  the  door  that  led  to  the  chapel,  he  showed 
them  the  tiny  window,  and  the  noble  view  from  it  over 
the  river  Orwell. 

Finally,  Walter  brought  his  guests  to  the  most  secret 
recess  in  the  house,  a  hiding  place  known  probably  only 
to  himself,  and  on  the  strength  of  which  he  had  ventured 
to  incur  the  terrible  risk  of  receiving  his  royal  master. 
Part  of  the  loft  was  covered  only  by  the  roof  of  the 
house,  which  ran  up  into  gables,  with  all  the  rafters  and 
cross  beams  showing.  Over  another  part  the  ceiling 
was  flat  and  low,  though  so  broken  was  the  outline  of 
walls  and  roof  everywhere,  that  the  difference  in  height 
was  scarcely  perceptible.  Here,  set  in  the  thickness 
of  one  of  the  gables,  to  be  reached  only  by  a  ladder,  was 
a  tiny  chamber,  not  more  than  six  feet  square,  where 
anyone,  provided  he  had  food,  might  lie  securely  hidden 
for  days  and  weeks.  A  sliding  panel  closed  this  room 


126  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

from  below,  and  when  it  was  fastened,  it  was  impossible, 
without  knowing  the  exact  spot,  to  find  it  again. 

Having  made  the  fugitives  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
this  place  of  safe  retreat  in  case  of  danger,  Walter  left 
them  in  the  attic,  until  a  room  could  be  prepared  for 
them.  Before  him  lay  a  task  as  difficult  as  any  he  had 
yet  attempted — to  break  to  his  mother  and  Roger,  as  far 
as  he  dared,  the  news  of  the  arrival  of  these  strange  and 
unwelcome  visitors. 


127 


CHAPTER   IX. 

RECOGNITION. 


THE  Fates  were  certainly  propitious  to  Walter  Sparowe 
and  his  companions  this  brilliant  September  evening. 
For  Mistress  Margaret's  journeys  from  home  were  few, 
and  such  an  event  as  an  afternoon  comfortably  devoted 
to  gossip  had  not  fallen  for  months.  Roger  disapproved 
of  these  visits  to  Gossip  Thurton's,  and  his  mother 
rarely  ventured  upon  them  except  when  he  was  away. 
In  the  present  instance  Walter  had  rightly  judged  her. 
So  long  did  she  stay  with  her  friends,  talking  over  matters 
which,  in  a  household  composed  wholly  of  men,  she  had 
no  opportunity  of  discussing,  that  she  was  appalled,  on 
coming  forth  at  last,  cloaked  and  hooded  for  her  home- 
ward journey,  to  find  that  the  sun  had  set,  and  night 
was  upon  her. 

Now  a  night  walk  in  those  days,  if  there  was  no  moon, 
was  a  very  different  matter  from  a  night  walk  at  the 
present  time.  To  say  nothing  of  the  danger  from  out- 
throats  and  robbers,  who  infested  the  outskirts  of  all  the 
larger  towns,  the  streets  themselves  were  neither  safe 
nor  pleasant.  There  were  no  well  defined  footways  to 
shield  the  pedestrians  from  passing  carriages,  and  the 
rough  stones  with  which  the  high  road  was  paved  were 
usually  ankle  deep  in  mud.  The  streets  were  so  narrow 
that  a  huge  travelling  coach,  with  its  team  of  six  or 
eight  horses,  might  at  any  moment  drive  the  passers  by 
to  take  refuge  for  safety  in  one  of  the  corners,  angles,  or 
covered  gateways  which  abounded  in  all  the  picturesque 
old  towns.  Added  to  which,  the  darkness,  even  in  the 
principal  thoroughfares  of  a  town,  was  such  as  we  can 
form  no  idea  of,  except  in  a  country  lane  in  mid  winter. 
It  is  true  that,  by  Act  of  Parliament,  all  houses  of  the 
better  class  were  compelled  to  hang  out  a  lantern  at 
night,  but  this  law  was  never  rigidly  enforced,  even  in 


128  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

London,  and  habitually  evaded  in  the  country.  Besides, 
as  it  was  only  in  operation  from  All  Hallows  to  Candle- 
mas, it  was  of  no  use  to  wayfarers  on  a  dark  night  in 
early  autumn.  And  even  where  common  charity  led  a 
householder  to  put  a  lamp  before  his  door,  the  feeble 
light  it  gave  only  made  darkness  more  visible. 

Under  cover  of  the  night,  too,  the  streets  were  made 
the  receptacle  of  the  filth  which  had  accumulated  in  the 
houses  during  the  day.  There  were  no  other  sewers ; 
and  woe  to  the  unwary  passer  by,  on  whom  some  zealous 
housewife  unwittingly  emptied  her  pail  of  refuse. 

Under  the  circumstances  it  is  not  surprising  that  no 
lady  stirred  abroad  after  dark,  unless  well  guarded  by 
footmen  with  torches.  Mistress  Margaret,  however, 
not  intending  to  stay  late,  had  given  no  orders  for  her 
homeward  escort,  and  she  was  standing  at  the  door  of 
Gossip  Thurton's  house,  ruefully  looking  out  into  the 
darkness,  and  lamenting  her  plight,  when  a  man  on 
horseback  paused  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  turned,  and 
to  her  joy  she  beheld  Roger. 

Here,  too,  some  lucky  chance  had  favoured  Walter. 
Roger  also  was  returning  later  than  he  intended,  for  he 
was  not  often  from  home  after  dark.  He  had  left  Mote 
End  long  before  sunset,  but  as  he  rode  into  the  town,  he 
met  a  friend,  one  of  the  Common  Councilmen.  This 
gentleman  was  anxious  to  consult  young  Master 
Sparowe,  .whose  practical  sense  and  clear  head  for 
business  were  justly  valued  by  the  borough  authorities, 
upon  some  matter  connected  with  the  shipping  by  the 
riverside.  There  was  still  an  hour  of  daylight,  and  the 
worthy  man  proposed  that,  since  there  was  no  time  like 
the  present,  they  should  go  at  once,  and  examine  the 
land  in  question.  The  dispute  turned  upon  the  point 
whether  a  certain  piece  of  ground,  lying  alongside  the 
Orwell,  were  within  the  town  boundaries,  and  whether 
the  Corporation  could  claim  the  port  dues  upon  all 
goods  landed  there.  Roger  Sparowe  listened,  put  a  few 
questions,  surveyed  the  land,  and  promised  to  look  over 
certain  papers  he  had  by  him  at  home,  which  might,  he 
thought,  throw  some  light  upon  the  subject. 


RECOGNITION.  129 

In  this  way  it  happened  that  Roger,  instead  of 
jogging  along  the  fairly  kept  high  road  from  London, 
was  picking  his  way  painfutty  through  one  of  the  narrow 
bye-streets  leading  from  the  river,  at  the  same  moment 
that  Mistress  Margaret,  standing  at  Gossip  Thurton's 
door,  was  wondering  how,  on  so  dark  a  night,  she  should 
ever  reach  home.  To  dismount  was  the  work  of  a 
moment.  Since  his  mother  could  not  ride  behind  him, 
Roger  walked  beside  her,  his  horse's  rein  over  his  arm. 
Such  a  conclusion  to  the  journey  caused  no  small 
perturbation  to  the  Spanish  jennet.  By  neighing  and 
pawing,  and  pushing  her  slender  nose  into  his  hand,  she 
tried  to  convey  to  her  master  that  this  slow  walk,  when 
the  stables  were  almost  within  sight,  was  a  sore  trial  to  a 
horse's  feelings.  Roger  smiled  at  her  impatience,  and 
now  and  then  he  broke  off  his  talk  with  Mistress  Sparowe, 
to  bestow  a  playful  caress  or  a  kind  word  upon  her. 

The  conversation  was  easier  and  more  cheerful  than 
usual.  The  afternoon's  journey  had  done  good  to  both 
mother  and  son.  Mistress  Margaret  was  happier  than 
she  had  been  for  weeks.  She  had  been  able  to  unburden 
her  mind  of  a  great  many  things,  which  were  robbed  of 
half  their  importance  merely  by  being  put  into  words. 
Roger,  too,  was  strangely  and  unaccountably  light- 
hearted.  For  a  time  he  had  absolutely  forgottenWalter, 
and  talked,  and  laid  plans,  as  easily  as  if  there  were  no 
terrible  anxiety  pressing  upon  him.  It  was  with  a 
sudden  pang  that  he  caught  sight  of  Joan,  standing  at 
the  door  of  the  great  house,  a  torch  in  her  hands, 
evidently  on  the  watch  to  impart  some  important  piece 
of  news.  And  it  was  with  mixed  feelings  of  anger  and 
relief  that  he  listened  to  her  joyful  report,  somewhat 
indiscreetly  proclaimed  before  they  had  crossed  the 
threshold,  that  the  wanderer  had  returned  in  safety. 

"  As  hale  and  hearty,  Mistress,  i'  faith,  as  if  he  had 
never  gone  out  wrong  foot  first.  I  know  not  what  to 
make  of  't.  He  ails  nothing,  I'll  take  my  oath  on't.  I 
thought  'twas  his  wraith  at  first,  but  now  he  hath  eaten 
such  a  meal  since  he  came,  ay,  such  a  meal  as  'ud  last 
me  half  the  week.  I'll  warrant  my  poor  boy  hath  had 

K 


130  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

nought  pass  his  lips  for  days,  may  be.  Them  Puritan 
folk,"  she  continued,  with  a  cautious  glance  at  Roger, 
"  were  like  to  have  starved  him  to  death." 

Joan  was  almost  equally  divided  between  her  delight 
at  Walter's  return,  and  her  vexation  at  the  failure  of 
her  prophecy.  Roger  did  not  much  concern  himself 
about  her  view  of  the  matter.  He  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  dread,  lest  he  should  be  confronted  with  Walter 
before  he  had  made  up  his  mind  how  to  treat  him. 
Making  the  excuse  that  he  wished  himself  to  see  to  the 
mare's  comfort,  he  took  the  reins,  and  led  her  off  down 
the  lane  by  the  side  of  the  house,  into  which  the  stables 
opened.  Mistress  Margaret  turned  to  Joan. 

"  And  why  comes  my  son  not  to  me  ?  "  she  asked, 
impatiently.  "  Since  he  hath  returned  whole  and  sound, 
he  should  be  here.  Hath  he  forgotten  how  his  mother 
longs  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  Hist,  Mistress,"  said  Joan,  with  her  finger  to  her 
lips,  drawing  Dame  Margaret  into  the  house.  "  Soft — I 
had  forgotten — we  must  be  secret — we  must  not  speak 
openly.  Master  Walter  hath  told  me  that  it  is  death  to 
him  if  I  talk  of  it.  He  dare  not  come  forth,  he  saith  ; 
he  must  be  in  hiding.  He  is  in  the  wainscotted  room." 

Mistress  Margaret  hurried  off,  full  of  joyful  eagerness 
to  welcome  her  son,  but  a  little  frightened  at  Joan's  last 
words.  Her  fears  were  increased  at  the  sight  of  Walter. 
His  worn  face,  hollow  cheeks,  and  sunken  eyes,  with 
great  black  lines  beneath  them,  startled  and  alarmed 
her.  He  seemed  even  to  have  grown  thinner,  so  at  least 
she  declared,  for  his  clothes  sat  loosely  on  him.  His 
mouth  twitched  incessantly,  and  his  hands  were  never 
still  for  a  moment,  Three  weeks  ago  he  had  left  her,  a 
gay,  light-hearted  boy,  going  gleefully  to  make  his  first 
trial  of  arms ;  and  here  she  beheld  a  grave,  care-stricken 
man, looking  years  older  even  than  her  staid  Roger.  Time 
was  when,  let  what  would  happen,  Walter's  easy  com- 
posure was  never  disturbed.  Now  he  started  at  every 
sound,  and  his  eyes  were  constantly  fixed  on  the  door. 

"Thou  art  ill,  my  son,"  she  said,  anxiously,  as,  after 
the  first  greeting,  Walter  closed  the  door  she  had  left 


RECOGNITION.  131 

open,  and  flung  himself  wearily  into  a  chair.  "  Joan 
saith  thou  art  hale  and  sound,  but  she  is  wrong.  Thou 
art  not  the  same.  Tell  me  what  ails  thee.  Is  it  some 
wound  thou  wilt  not  speak  of  ?  " 

"  None,  mother.  Look  not  so  fearfully  at  me ;  I  have 
not  won  so  much  as  a  scratch.  I  am  weary,  not  ill.  A 
man  who  hath  known  no  better  bed  than  a  truss  of  straw 
for  twelve  nights  is  fain  to  be  weary." 

"  No  bed,  Walter!"  cried  Mistress  Margaret,  in  horror. 
"  Those  cruel  Parliament  men  !  Would  they  not  let 
thee  sleep  ?  Not  for  twelve  nights,  didst  say  ?  Then 
not  another  word  will  I  hear.  Come  straightway  to  thy 
chamber,  and  get  thee  to  bed,  and  rest  thee  there 
undisturbed  till  to-morrow  night,  if  thou  wilt." 

Walter  looked  down  at  his  mother,  and  a  softer 
expression  came  into  his  eyes.  "  That  were  too  hard  for 
thee,  mother  mine,  for  I  trow  thou  art  bursting  with  a 
thousand  questions.  There  are  other  things  more 
needful  than  rest  and  sleep.  Didst  not  say  that  Roger 
was  with  thee.  Doth  he  know  that  I  am  come  ?  " 

"Ay,  Joan  hath  told  him,"  said  Dame  Margaret,  care- 
lessly. "  He  will  be  here  anon ;  he  hath  but  gone  to 
see  to  the  new  Spanish  mare.  How  now,  Walter? 
Thou  wast  pale  before,  but  now  thou  art  whiter  than 
this  kerchief.  Is  it  the  mention  of  thy  brother's  name 
that  hath  so  troubled  thee  ?  Foolish  boy !  as  though 
he  would  not  be  as  glad  to  see  thee  as  I  am." 

"  Mother,  I  know  not,"  answered  Walter,  shuddering. 
"  I  was  not  welcome  before  "... 

"  Some  boyish  quarrel,  which  Roger  will  be  first  to 
forget  and  forgive,"  interrupted  Mistress  Margaret.  "  He 
is  happy  to-day,  in  gayer  mood  than  I  have  seen  him  for 
a  long  while.  How  canst  thou  think  such  hard  things 
of  him,  Walter  ?  " 

"  Thou  dost  forget,  Mother.  I  have  no  right  to  be 
here,  nor  anywhere  else.  The  Parliament  dogs  are  at 
my  heels.  If  Roger  receive  me,  he  giveth  shelter  to  a 
man  on  whose  head  a  price  hath  been  set.  Perchance 
'twill  bring  himself  into  jeopardy.  For,  oh !  the  good 
cause  is  lost — lost !  " 


132  A  KINO'S  RANSOM. 

And  for  a  moment  Walter's  head  fell  forward  on  the 
table,  and  a  long  shivering  sigh  escaped  him.  Then  he 
clenched  his  hand,  and  raised  himself  with  an  effort, 
muttering :  "  Fool  that  I  am !  This  weakness  shall  not 
be.  There  are  others  to  consider." 

Mistress  Margaret  sat  and  gazed  at  him,  horror  struck. 
Till  now  she  had  not  realized  the  significance  of  the 
defeat  at  Worcester.  She  had  only  a  vague,  blurred 
notion  that  the  cause  of  one  son  had  been  lost,  the  cause 
of  the  other  won ;  the  meaning  of  it  had  not  come  home 
to  her.  She  did  not  know  how  to  comfort  Walter. 
She  could  only  look  helplessly  at  him,  and  take  his  hand 
softly  between  her  own,  and  press  it. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Roger  entered. 
He  came  in  quietly,  moving  with  great  deliberation,  as  if 
he  were  not  dreading  this  inevitable  meeting  as  much  as 
Walter.  A  hard  task  lay  before  him.  Three  weeks 
ago,  he  had  driven  Walter  to  leave  the  house,  and  held 
himself  fully  justified  in  so  doing ;  now,  his  brother 
came  back  under  such  circumstances,  that  to  refuse  to 
admit  him  was  to  consign  him  to  almost  certain  death. 
Roger  knew  well  that  all  who  had  fought  at  Worcester 
were  marked  men,  for  the  Parliament  had  determined 
to  show  no  mercy  to  those  Malignants  who  had  a  third 
time  involved  the  unhappy  country  in  civil  war.  He 
knew  that  his  own  interest  with  the  victorious  party 
would  be  taxed  to  the  uttermost  to  shield  Walter ;  that 
to  give  his  brother  shelter  would  probably  damage  his 
good  reputation,  and  would  certainly  imperil  the  hopes 
he  had  indulged  in  only  a  few  hours  before.  All  these 
thoughts  surged  through  poor  Roger's  brain,  as  he  drew 
himself  up,  and  walked  across  the  room  with  as  much 
composure  as  he  could  affect. 

As  Roger  came  towards  him,  Walter  dragged  himself 
wearily  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  leaning  against  the 
table.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  each  brother 
striving  to  read  the  other's  thoughts  in  his  face.  Then 
Roger  said,  stiffly,  "  Good  even  to  thee,  Walter.  Thou 
hast  found  thy  way  back  to  us,  then." 

"  Yea,  for  I  knew  not  where  else  to  go,  and  the  pursuit 


RECOGNITION.  133 

was  sharp.     But  I  stay  not  unless  thou  will  it,  brother, 
Give  me  a  night's  shelter,  and  I  will  be  gone  to-morrow." 

The  altered  tones  of  Walter's  words  startled  Roger. 
Looking  more  closely  at  him,  he  saw,  what  Mistress 
Margaret's  quick  eyes  had  perceived  at  the  first  glance, 
his  brother's  ragged  dress,  and  haggard  face,  and  sunken 
eyes.  His  heart  smote  him,  but  he  only  answered, 
coldly  :  "  Thou  canst  remain.  I  have  told  thee  that,  for 
our  mother's  sake,  thou  shalt  be  free  of  this  house  as 
long  as  she  lives." 

"  Ay,  but  that  was  in  other  times.  I  come  now  as  a 
fugitive,  with  a  price  on  my  head." 

Roger  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  see  not  that  aught 
is  altered  thereby,"  he  answered,  in  the  same  cold  tone. 
"  Thou  knowest  well  wherefore  I  will  hold  no  further 
converse  with  thee.  That  sin  being  still  unrepented  of" 
— he  glanced  cautiously  at  Mistress  Sparowe,  who  was 
sobbing  gently — "  it  doth  not  signify  whether  the 
Malignants  be  beaten  or  victorious.  Thou  art  in  danger, 
and  our  father's  house  is  thy  rightful  shelter." 

He  turned  to  leave  the  room  before  Walter  could 
reply,  when  a  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  him. 
"  Hast  given  thanks  to  the  Lord  for  thy  deliverance  ?  " 

"  And  wherefore  should  I  give  thanks  ? "  answered 
Walter,  bitterly.  "  Dost  thou  think  that  so  wretched  a 
life  as  mine  is  worth  preserving,  when  mine  own  brother 
will  scarce  speak  with  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Walter,  say  not  so,"  cried  Mistress  Margaret. 
"  He  will  relent,  our  stern  Roger ;  he  will  forgive  when 
his  mother  kneels  to  him  for  pardon  and  pity." 

"  Mother,  spare  thy  pains,"  answered  Walter.  "  He 
hath  no  pity.  Nevertheless,  brother,  thou  must  tarry  a 
moment  longer.  I  have  somewhat  more  to  say  to  thee." 

"  Thou  canst  have  nought  to  say  that  I  desire  to  hear," 
answered  Roger.  "  Speak  thy  business  to  our  mother, 
and  she  shall  tell  me  of  it.  Or,  I  will  see  thee  again 
to-morrow." 

And  Roger  hurried  away,  more  agitated  than  he  cared 
to  confess.  He  took  refuge  in  his  own  room,  where, 
with  his  Bible  before  him,  he  endeavoured  to  think  the 


134  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

matter  out,  and  determine  what  was  his  duty.  Never, 
he  thought,  had  man  found  himself  in  a  more  painful 
position.  For  the  present,  Walter  must  remain,  at 
whatever  risk.  Even  Master  Burroughs  could  hardly 
wish  Roger  to  hand  his  own  brother  over  to  destruction 
by  denying  him  shelter,  and  Roger  blushed  with  shame 
so  much  as  to  think  of  Master  Burroughs'  opinion  at 
this  crisis.  But  the  longer  he  reflected,  the  more 
convinced  he  became  that,  for  Walter's  own  sake,  he 
must  endeavour  to  convey  him  out  of  England  as 
speedily  as  possible.  There  would  be  no  safety  for  him 
till  he  was  beyond  seas.  And  while  Walter  remained  at 
the  Old  House,  he  would  have  to  submit  to  the  most 
rigid  secrecy.  It  would  be  necessary  to  conceal  his 
presence  from  the  servants,  unless  they  had  already 
heard  of  it  through  Joan,  and  certainly  from  the 
neighbours.  The  master  of  the  house  and  Mistress 
Sparowe  must  go  about  their  daily  business,  and  meet 
their  friends,  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  strictly 
hiding  the  fact  that  they  had  a  rank  Malignant,  who  had 
actually  been  in  arms,  under  their  roof.  Roger  sighed 
over  the  inevitable  deception,  and  a  prayer  rose  to  his 
lips  that  the  enemy  of  souls  might  not  be  suffered  too 
severely  to  molest  him,  that  he  might  not  be  forced  into 
any  actual  falsehood. 

Roger  was  up  betimes  the  following  morning.  He  was 
anxious  not  to  lose  a  single  day  in  making  arrangements 
to  send  Walter  out  of  England.  This  could  not  prove  a 
difficult  matter.  Down  by  the  wharf  there  were  always 
plenty  of  vessels  going  to  Holland,  one  of  which,  for  a 
handsome  consideration,  might  take  his  brother  on 
board.  There  was  much  traffic  at  that  time  with  the 
Netherlands.  Trade  had  never  been  so  brisk  between 
the  two  countries.  The  new  English  Commonwealth 
naturally  sought  help  and  countenance  of  the  older 
Republic,  and  a  bond  of  mutual  convenience,  if  not  of 
affection,  united  them.  Roger  did  not  doubt  that  he 
should  be  able  to  find  a  ship  going  to  Rotterdam  or  the 
Hague,  and  would  succeed  in  persuading  the  captain  to 
encumber  himself  with  a  suspicious  guest. 


RECOGNITION.  135 

Before  he  went,  he  wished  to  put  his  mother  on  her 
guard  against  revealing  Walter's  presence  to  any  chance 
visitor.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  speak  to  Walter  him- 
self. He  shrank  from  coming  in  contact  with  him. 
When  he  thought  of  all  that  his  presence  might  cost 
him,  it  went  hard  with  Roger  that  he  did  not  hate  his 
brother. 

Roger  was  not  often  at  home  of  a  morning.  Three 
days  a  week  he  attended  the  meetings  of  the  Corporation. 
At  other  times  he  was  usually  engaged  in  matters  per- 
taining either  to  the  government  of  the  borough,  or  the 
administration  of  his  own  estates.  When  he  had  a 
leisure  day  he  was  glad  to  employ  it,  more  for  health's 
sake  than  for  any  pleasure  it  gave  him,  in  hunting  and 
fishing.  Sometimes,  however,  business  detained  him 
at  home,  when  he  sat  in  his  own  room,  close  to  the 
entrance  hall,  and  never  appeared  in  the  family  sitting 
rooms  till  noon. 

As  to  Mistress  Margaret,  though  considered  by  her 
neighbours  somewhat  of  a  fine  lady,  she  was  the  most 
exemplary  of  housewives.  Her  usual  resort  of  a  morning 
was  the  buttery — a  delightful  room,  half  kitchen,  half 
parlour.  Here,  and  in  the  adjoining  still  room,  she 
cooked  her  more  delicate  cakes  and  viands,  compounded 
her  simple  medicines,  saw  her  poorer  neighbours,  and 
otherwise  busied  herself  in  various  household  duties. 

To  his  surprise,  Roger  did  not  for  once  find  his  mother 
here.  Crossing  the  courtyard,  he  opened  the  door  which 
led  to  the  sitting  rooms,  and  hearing  voices  in  the  wains- 
cotted  room,  walked  quietly  in.  Mistress  Margaret,  in 
a  graceful  morning  wrapper,  was  sitting  at  the  table, 
apparently  engaged,  at  ten  o'clock  of  the  forenoon,  in  no 
more  important  occupation  than  talking.  Her  pretty 
hands  lay  idle  in  her  lap,  or  played  with  the  ribbons  of 
her  gown ;  her  soft  face  was  clouded  with  perplexity, 
and  wrinkled  as  Roger  had  seldom  seen  it  before. 
Beside  her,  with  his  back  to  the  door,  leaning  forward, 
and  talking  earnestly  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  sat  his 
brother,  as  Roger  supposed ;  and  he  was  on  the  point  of 
beckoning  his  mother  unceremoniously  from  the  room, 


136  A    KINO'S    RANSOM. 

when  the  other,  hearing  his  footsteps,  turned.  It  was 
not  Walter.  In  a  moment,  with  a  shock  of  surprise, 
Roger  recognized  the  dark  resolute  face  and  flashing 
eyes  of  Ralph  Wentworth. 

"  Well  met,  Roger,"  said  Wentworth,  advancing  and 
holding  out  his  hand,  "or  rather  should  I  not  say, 
ill-met  ?  since  thou  canst  scarce  desire  to  see  me  here. 
How !  "  as  Roger  started  back  and  an  exclamation  of 
astonishment  escaped  him :  "  Walter  hath  not  told  thee, 
then.  Foolish  lad !  when  I  laid  it  on  his  conscience — 
if  he  hath  one — not  to  suffer  thee  to  sleep  till  the  secret 
was  out.  I  would  not  have  thee  kept  one  hour  in 
ignorance.  But  he  hath  been  for  delay,  all  through  the 
business." 

"  Thou,  Ralph  !  here,  and  beneath  my  roof  ?  "  gasped 
Roger,  in  intense  astonishment.  "  Now  the  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us  all  I  " 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy,  as  thou  sayest,  friend,  for 
from  man  we  are  like  to  get  none,"  returned  Wentworth, 
drily.  "  I  come  to  claim  thy  shelter,  if  thou  wilt  give  it 
me.  If  not,  to  take  my  last  leave  of  thee,  for  assuredly 
we  shall  not  meet  again  in  this  world.  Those  knaves  of 
Parliament  men  have  run  us  too  close  to  earth  this  time." 

Roger  did  not  answer.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  face 
as  he  stood,  mechanically  holding  Wentvvorth's  hand, 
and  forgetting  in  his  agitation  to  drop  it. 

"  Was  it  ill  done,  Roger,  to  take  thee  thus  at  un- 
awares ?  "  asked  his  friend,  after  a  pause.  "  When  men 
fly  for  their  lives,  they  stay  not  for  nice  ceremony.  And 
we  have  one  with  us,  Will  Somers,  my  serving  man — 
'tis  well  thou  shouldest  know  all.  Prithee  give  him 
shelter  likewise.  Come,  man,  speak,"  as  Roger  still 
continued  silent.  "  Have  I  strained  thy  friendship 
too  far  ?  " 

"  Roger,  send  them  not  from  thee,"  pleaded  Mistress 
Margaret  tearfully,  laying  her  hand  on  her  son's  arm. 
"  If  thou  turn  them  away,  their  blood  will  be  upon  thy 
head.  Be  merciful,  my  son,  as  thou  hopest  for  mercy 
thyself.  An  the  chance  of  war  had  gone  another  way, 
thou  wouldest  thyself  have  had  to  fly." 


RECOGNITION.  137 

"Mother,  I  think  not  to  send  them  from  me,"  said 
Roger,  at  last,  in  a  husky  voice.  "  Let  them  remain. 
As  long  as  this  house  can  shelter  them,  they  shall  be 
here."  He  stopped  a  moment,  then  forced  himself  to  go 
on :  "I  tell  thee,  Ralph,  as  I  told  Walter  yesternight, 
that  I  will  protect  thee  so  far  as  my  power  doth  extend. 
It  shall  never  be  said  that  a  Sparowe  turned  a 
Wentworth  from  his  door." 

"There  spoke  my  brave-hearted  Roger.  Friend,  I 
would  thank  thee,  but  words  are  feeble.  I  knew  it. 
I  told  Walter  'twould  be  thus.  I  said  to  Will  Somers 
that  I  would  answer  for  thine  honour  with  my  life." 

"  Tis  no  question  of  honour,  as  I  take  it,"  said  Roger, 
hoarsely.  "  Christian  charity  and  goodwill  alone  are 
concerned  in  it.  I  dare  not  refuse  the  shelter  ye  ask 
for.  Only" — Roger  forced  a  smile  to  his  white  lips — 
"  ye  must  consent  to  lie  close,  else  my  good  name  will 
not  avail  to  shield  you." 

"  We  will  lie  close  as  any  hunted  creatures,"  returned 
Wentworth,  "  Have  no  fear  of  us.  Thou  canst  trust 
us."  And  then  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  and 
nodded,  and,  without  more  words,  the  bargain  was  sealed. 
Mistress  Margaret  clapped  her  hands. 

"  Now  thou  art  kind  again,  Roger,"  she  cried.  "  I 
knew  not— I  dare  not  make  so  sure  of  thee  as  Ralph 
here.  And  now  we  can  all  rejoice  and  be  happy.  For 
harm  cannot  come  of  it.  Who  would  hold  thee  to  blame 
for  sheltering  thine  own  brother  and  dearest  friend  t " 

Roger  and  Wentworth  exchanged  looks,  but  neither 
spoke,  and  Mistress  Margaret  continued :  "  And,  oh, 
Roger!  Prithee  chide  not  thy  brother  so  sharply  as 
thou  didst  yesternight.  He  hath  done  naught  to  anger 
thee,  save  only  that  he  hath  espoused  the  King's  cause." 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  these  things,  mother,"  said 
Roger,  gently.  "  Much  now  lieth  with  thee.  Firstly, 
thou  must  see  that  our  friend  lacks  for  naught  while  he 
is  with  us.  That  I  may  safely  leave  to  thee.  Secondly, 
look  to  it  that  thou  betray  not  his  presence,  or  Walter's, 
to  our  neighbours  by  speech  or  sign.  A  word  from  thee 
may  undo  us  all." 


138  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  It  shall  be  seen  to,"  answered  Mistress  Margaret, 
readily.  "  And  now  our  next  concern  is  the  dinner,  1 
trow.  Alack  I  I  have  left  as  fine  a  pasty  as  man  could 
wish  to  taste  in  the  oven,  and  while  I  stay  talking  here 
'twill  be  burnt  as  black  as  my  shoe.  The  maids,  foolish 
things,  know  not  when  to  take  a  pasty  from  the  oven. 
Out  upon  me  for  forgetting  it,  and  upon  you  both  for 
disturbing  me  when  I  have  so  much  on  hand ! "  And 
catching  up  the  huge  bunch  of  keys  at  her  girdle, 
Mistress  Margaret  hastened  to  the  rescue  of  her  pie. 

The  two  men  turned,  and  looked  at  each  other.  "  A 
word  further  with  thee,  Ralph,"  said  Roger,  as  soon  as 
his  mother  had  disappeared  into  the  buttery.  "  I  give 
thee  shelter  freely,  but  this  is  no  place  for  thee,  or  for 
Walter  now,  as  thou  must  know.  Hast  devised  any 
plan  to  get  from  hence?" 

"  We  have  friends  in  Harwich,  who  busy  themselves  on 
our  behalf,"  answered  Wentworth,  "and  we  trust  shortly 
to  have  news  of  a  boat  for  Holland.  We  will  not  put 
thy  goodness  to  the  proof  longer  than  needful.  Roger," 
Wentworth  went  towards  his  friend,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  "  before  thy  mother  I  made  somewhat  light 
of  the  protection  we  have  claimed  of  thee.  I  desired 
not  to  affright  her.  But  think  not  I  am  ignorant  or 
careless  of  thy  risk.  For  myself,  I  had  died  sooner  than 
ask  this  of  thee.  God  forbid  that,  for  mine  own  safety 
only,  I  should  place  thee  in  such  jeopardy." 

He  stopped,  and  Roger,  looking  up,  was  astonished 
to  see  his  usually  calm  face  quivering  with  emotion. 
With  an  effort  to  speak  cheerfully,  Wentworth  went  on  : 

"  We  have  hopes  of  some  conveyance  hence,  out  of 
England,  and  till  the  matter  was  arranged,  we  were 
forced  to  lie  hidden  in  these  parts.  I  knew  no  house  but 
thine,  where  such  concealment  could  be,  and  therefore  I 
yielded  to  Walter,  and  came." 

"  Thou  hast  well  done,"  said  Roger,  heartily.  "  Speak 
not  of  the  danger,  Ralph.  Are  we  not  friends,  and  doth 
not  that  suffice  ?  Is  there  anything  thou  couldst  ask, 
which  I  would  not  freely  give  thee  ?  " 

"  Roger,  I  deserve  not  thy  goodness,"  said  Wentworth, 


RECOGNITION.  139 

more  moved  than  even  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant. 
11  Dost  thou  know  that  we  have  a  price  on  our  heads, 
and  that  it  is  death  to  anyone  to  give  us  shelter  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  know  it,"  answered  Roger.  "  What  of  that  ? 
Do  I  set  such  store  by  mine  own  life,  Ralph,  that  I 
cannot  give  it  willingly  for  my  friend  ?  So  I  can  but  act 
rightly,  and  do  my  duty — the  Lord  grant  me  light !  " 

Wentworth  seized  his  friend's  hand,  but  before  he 
could  answer  the  door  opened,  and  Walter's  tall  figure 
appeared  in  the  entrance.  He  was  about  to  enter  when, 
glancing  over  his  shoulder,  he  stopped  and  stood  aside, 
to  let  a  young  man  pass  into  the  room.  Two  things 
about  the  stranger  rivetted  Roger's  attention.  He  was 
struck  with  the  incongruity  between  his  brilliant  dark 
eyes,  delicate  lips,  and  keen  vivacious  face,  and  the 
rough,  dirty,  serving  man's  suit  he  wore ;  and  he  could 
not  fail  to  notice  that  Walter,  who  rarely  showed  much 
courtesy,  even  to  his  mother,  treated  with  marked 
deference  a  man  who,  if  Wentworth  was  to  be  believed, 
was  greatly  his  inferior  in  station. 

The  moment  Walter  caught  sight  of  his  brother,  he 
started  and  blushed  crimson,  then  pushing  rudely  past 
his  companion,  he  tried  to  assume  a  careless  air, 
swaggered  haughtily  up  to  Roger,  and  wished  him 
"  Good  day." 

Roger  absently  returned  his  brother's  greeting.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  stranger  who,  after  a  modest 
bow  to  the  company,  placed  himself  respectfully  behind 
Wentworth,  cap  in  hand,  and  stood  awaiting  his  orders. 

"  This,"  said  Wentworth,  turning  to  Roger,  "  is  the 
serving  man  of  whom  I  spoke.  He  hath  been  a  faithful 
friend  to  me  in  the  war.  But  for  him,  I  had  not  come 
alive  out  of  Worcester  fight.  Prithee  let  me  bespeak 
thy  good  offices  for  him." 

Roger  did  not  answer.  The  more  closely  he  watched 
the  new  comer,  the  more  convinced  he  felt  that  he  had 
seen  those  brilliant  eyes,  that  swarthy  face,  and  those 
thin,  cynical  lips  before.  Wentworth  continued  :  "  I 
have  no  further  need  for  thee  now,  good  Will.  Go  thou 
to  our  chamber,  and  see  to  my  gear.  Hold  thee  in 


140  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

readiness  to  start  at  a  moment's  warning.  For  his  sake, 
and  our  own,  we  will  not  quarter  ourselves  on  our  friend 
longer  than  need  is." 

The  young  man  bowed  in  silence,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  going  to  execute  his  master's  orders,  when  Roger 
sprang  across  the  room,  and  stopped  him  with  a  sudden 
"Hold!"  Walter  darted  forward  with  an  oath,  but 
Wentworth  dragged  him  back,  and  thrust  his  hand  over 
his  mouth. 

"  What  wouldest  thou  with  my  man,  Roger  ? "  he 
asked,  and  though  his  voice  was  calm,  his  whole  frame 
trembled.  "  Methinks  our  talk  is  scarcely  fit  for  his 
ears.  Let  him  go  and  see  to  mine  armour." 

"  This  is  no  man  of  thine,"  said  Roger,  sternly. 
"  Mock  me  not  with  a  falsehood,  Ralph.  Is  it  not 
enough  that  I  risk  my  life  to  shelter  you,  but  ye  must 
needs  use  further  concealment  ?  The  Lord  help  me  I 
Thou,  and  Walter,  and  thy  friend  here,  ye  are  all 
deceiving  me.  Will  not  one  of  you  speak  the  truth  ? 
As  for  this  gentleman,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  the 
stranger,  "  I  have  seen  his  face  before.  In  Scotland, 
was  it  not  ?  Ay,  in  Scotland  last  year,  when  I  served 
against  the  King  of  Scots." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Wentworth  turned  ghastly 
pale,  and  bent  his  eyes  to  the  ground.  Walter  stamped 
his  foot  and  ground  his  teeth  in  futile  rage  and  despair. 
Roger,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  stood  between  the 
stranger  and  the  door.  The  subject  of  the  controversy 
alone  was  apparently  unmoved  by  it.  He  stood  still, 
when  Roger  stopped  him,  without  offering  any  resistance, 
and  tranquilly  submitted  to  the  young  man's  scrutinizing 
gaze.  There  was  a  breathless  pause,  while  he  seemed 
to  debate  something  with  himself:  then  he  raised  his 
eyes,  and  confronted  Roger  with  absolute  composure. 

"You  are  right,  Master  Sparowe,"  he  said,  with  a 
quiet  dignity  in  tone  and  bearing  which  rivetted  the 
attention  of  all.  "  'Tis  a  poor  return  for  the  protection 
you  give  us,  to  keep  you  in  ignorance  of  aught  that 
concerns  you.  Truly  you  owe  us  small  thanks  for 
thrusting  ourselves  upon  you  at  this  unwelcome  juncture. 


RECOGNITION.  141 

My  friends  here  willed  it  so ;  I  had  never  done  it  with- 
out your  consent.  But  at  least  there  shall  be  no  error ; 
you  shall  know  whom  you  shelter." 

"  He  put  on  the  small,  round  cap  he  held  in  his  hand, 
and  continued :  "  Ten  days  ago,  I  was  a  King  ;  now — I 
am  plain  Will  Somers,  at  your  service." 

Roger  staggered  back,  horror  struck.  "  The  King  of 
Scots !  "  he  exclaimed  wildly.  "  Charles  Stuart  him- 
self! It  cannot  be!" 

"  So  is  it,  nevertheless,"  answered  the  other,  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  I  have  borne  so  many  names,  it  signifieth 
little  by  which  you  please  to  call  me.  I  am  much 
beholden  to  you,  that  you  dub  me  not  forthwith  the  Man 
of  Sin.  Charles  Stuart  then  it  is,  who  asks  the  shelter 
of  your  house  for  forty-eight  hours." 

"  The  King  of  Scots !  the  King  of  Scots !  "  repeated 
Roger,  in  a  terrified  voice. 

"  King  neither  of  Scotland  or  England  for  the  nonce," 
returned  Charles.  "  Now,  good  Master  Sparowe,  since 
our  friends  yonder  are  dumb-founded,  it  behoves  me  to 
use  plainness  of  speech,  and  to  put  clearly  before  you 
how  we  stand.  We  are  in  your  hands.  Either  you  may 
deliver  us  up  to  the  nearest  justice,  or  belike  you  are  a 
justice  yourself,  you  may  with  your  own  hands  clap  us 
in  ward.  Or  you  may  bid  us  depart  in  peace,  which  we 
will  do  forthwith,  and  run  our  chance  of  the  Parliament 
men.  Or  you  may  shelter  us,  at  the  risk  of  your  life, 
till  we  get  a  ship  to  Holland ;  in  which  latter  case  I 
remain  for  ever  your  debtor.  And,  marry,  I  care  not 
greatly  which  course  of  the  three  you  take." 

And  Charles  leant  back  against  the  door,  and  watched 
Roger's  troubled  face  with  quiet  composure.  A  long 
silence  ensued,  a  silence  so  painful  that  the  actors 
in  this  strange  drama  scarcely  dared  to  breathe.  Walter 
was  the  first  to  break  it.  As  Roger  turned  and 
looked  at  him  and  Wentworth,  he  held  out  his  hands 
appealingly. 

"  Mercy,  brother,"  he  cried,  "  mercy  I  Thou  art  so 
cold  and  hard,  I  dared  not  tell  thee.  I  said  to  Ralph 
that  'twas  best  to  keep  thee  in  ignorance.  Yet  oh  !  we 


142  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

could  no  other.  The  King  needed  a  place  of  safety,  and 
I  knew  of  none  other  on  this  coast.  Thou  hadst  told 
me,  too,  that  thou  wouldest  not  shut  me  from  our 
father's  house,  for  any  difference  betwixt  us." 

"  Be  still,  Walter  1 "  said  Roger,  sharply.  "  Thou 
hast  wrought  me  evil  enough  ;  prithee  leave  me  in  peace. 
As  for  you,  sir,  I  pray  you  suffer  me  to  withdraw  for 
awhile.  Matters  have  come  to  that  pass  that  I  know 
not  how  to  act." 

"We  would  not  hasten  your  decision,  sir,"  said 
Charles,  with  a  courteous  wave  of  the  hand.  "  Pray 
you,  consider  it  as  long  as  you  will." 

"  I  would  seek  counsel  of  the  Lord,"  said  Roger,  so 
earnestly  that  even  Charles  did  not  smile.  "  In  a  few 
hours,  it  may  be,  with  prayer  and  supplication,  I  shall 
have  light." 

"And  thou  wilt  not  kiss  the  King's  hand  before  thou 
goest,  Roger  ?  "  asked  Walter,  eagerly. 

"  It  needs  not,"  said  Charles,  with  a  gracious  smile. 
"  The  service  you  have  already  rendered,  sir,  makes  me 
for  ever  your  debtor.  The  excellent  dinner  and  bed 
wherewith  I  was  hospitably  entertained  last  night,  at 
your  cost,  albeit  not  with  your  knowledge,  do  greatly 
outweigh  any  such  trifles.  I'  faith,  I  stood  in  sore  need 
of  both." 

With  a  bow  Roger  was  leaving  the  room,  hoping  to 
put  an  end  to  this  painful  scene,  when  Wentworth,  who 
had  been  an  agitated  spectator,  stepped  up  to  him,  and 
drew  him  aside.  "  Roger,"  he  asked,  "  dost  remember 
our  pledge  at  parting  on  London  Bridge  three  weeks 
since  ?  " 

"  I  mind  it  well,  Ralph,"  answered  Roger.  "  I  give 
not  my  pledges  lightly." 

"  Nor  do  I  claim  them  lightly.  We  did  swear  then  to 
stand  by  each  other,  and  help  each  other  as  friends  to 
the  uttermost.  Was  it  not  so  ?  " 

Roger  bent  his  head,  and  Wentworth  continued  :  "  If 
thy  pledge  had  meaning  in  it,  Roger,  redeem  it  upon  him 
who  stands  there.  He  is  more  to  me  than  all  the  world 
besides." 


RECOGNITION.  143 

"  More  than  I,  Ralph  ?  Is  it  verily  so?  Thou  dost 
not  know  him.  Thou  hast  scarce  seen  him  a  dozen 
times,  and  we  have  been  friends  from  childhood." 

"  Roger,  thou  dost  not  understand,"  interrupted 
Wentworth  impatiently.  "  Thou  art  my  friend,  but  he 
is  my  King.  I  would  sacrifice  thy  very  friendship,  if 
need  were,  to  secure  his  safety.  For  his  sake,  Roger, 

ask  thee  to  fulfil  the  pledge.     For  his  sake !  " 

Roger  glanced  back  into  the  room.  Charles  was 
examining  the  rich  carving  of  the  wainscotting,  des- 
canting upon  its  beauty  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur, 
and  talking  as  easily  to  Walter,  as  if  no  lives  hung  in 
the  balance. 

"  I  understand  thee  now,"  said  Roger,  in  a  low,  bitter 
voice.  "  Ralph  Wentworth,  I  offered  thee  safety.  Dost 
thou  claim  it  for  him  rather  than  thyself  ?  " 

"  Yea,  for  him,"  answered  Wentworth.  "  Else  is  the 
pledge  of  no  avail." 

Roger  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "  I  see  it  all,"  he 
said.  "  Have  patience  with  me,  friend.  I  will  lay  the 
matter  before  the  Lord,  and  peradventure  it  shall  be 
as  thou  wilt." 

And  with  these  words,  the  young  Puritan  quitted  the 
room. 


144 


CHAPTER   X. 

FATHER    MARTIN. 


LEFT  to  themselves,  the  three  fugitives  held  a  hasty 
consultation.  Or  rather,  to  speak  more  truly,  Walter 
and  Wentworth  discussed  plans,  and  weighed  the 
chances  of  escape  and  discovery,  while  the  object  of 
their  anxious  deliberations  threw  in  a  word  here  and 
there,  sometimes  apposite,  often  gay,  and  occasionally 
even  trivial. 

It  was  decided  at  once  that  Charles  could  not  risk 
himself  again  in  the  family  sitting  rooms.  He  had 
already  been  recognized  by  Roger,  and  if  he  mixed  freely 
with  the  company  that  frequented  the  house,  his  person 
could  not  fail  to  be  known  to  some  at  least  among  them, 
more  especially  since  the  town  was  crowded  with  soldiers 
from  Worcester.  The  courtyard  was  often  full  of 
visitors,  rich  and  poor.  People  came  there  to  see  Roger 
on  business ;  country  neighbours  rode  in,  and  without 
more  ceremony  proceeded  to  "  stable "  their  horses ; 
poor  folk  waited  there  for  Mistress  Margaret,  and  dis- 
cussed their  ailments  freely  with  the  servants.  In  the 
narrow  lane  which  ran  down  the  side  of  the  house  was  a 
small  postern  gate,  much  used  by  those  who  did  not  care 
to  be  at  the  trouble  of  making  a  formal  entry  by  the 
great  front  hall.  Walter  knew  well  how  frequently 
intimate  friends  of  the  family  were  in  the  habit  of 
entering  the  courtyard  by  this  gate,  crossing  over,  and 
coming  without  further  announcement  than  a  knock  into 
the  sitting  rooms.  At  any  moment,  then,  a  stranger 
might  appear,  recognize  the  King,  and  throw  all  their 
plans  of  concealment  to  the  winds. 

Above  this  room,  just  beneath  the  chapel  gable,  was  a 
noble  chamber.  The  roof  of  it  had  always  excited  the 
admiration  and  envy  of  master  builders.  The  walls  and 


FATHER   MARTIN.  145 

ceiling  were  united  in  one  single  vaulted  arch,  curiously 
poised,  which  sprang  from  the  sides  of  the  room  at  a 
distance  of  six  feet  from  the  ground,  and  rose  to  nearly 
treble  that  height.  This  magnificent  arch  culminated  in 
the  centre  of  the  roof  in  a  richly  carved  rose,  and  the 
same  ornament  was  seen,  quartered,  in  the  four  angles  of 
the  room ;  a  delicate  allusion,  probably,  to  the  three  red 
roses  which  formed  the  Sparowe  coat  of  arms.  The 
room  looked  towards  the  garden,  and  partly  because  it 
was  quiet,  partly  on  account  of  its  noble  proportions, 
was  usually  assigned  for  the  accommodation  of  guests  of 
quality.  Royalty  itself  before  now  had  used  this  room, 
when  honouring  the  Sparowe  family  with  a  visit.  Here 
Wentworth  had  been  formally  installed,  the  night  before, 
by  Mistress  Margaret,  and  a  low  tuckle  bed  hastily 
made  up  in  the  corner  for  Will  Somers,  which 
Wentworth,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  lost  no  time  in 
taking  for  himself. 

Walter  now  proposed  that  his  dangerous  guests  should 
establish  themselves  here  for  the  present,  only  venturing 
into  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  when  he  could  certify 
that  they  might  do  so  without  risk.  For  himself,  he 
openly  declared  that  he  did  not  intend  to  use  much 
concealment.  By  this  time,  nearly  all  the  servants  had 
seen  him,  but  being  mostly  old  retainers  of  the  family, 
they  could  be  trusted.  They  were  as  certain  as  Roger 
himself  and  Mistress  Margaret  not  to  speak  of  their 
young  master's  return,  if  bidden  to  be  silent.  It  was 
already  known  among  them  that  Master  Walter  had 
brought  a  friend  and  his  serving  man,  and  that  both  were 
obliged  to  remain  concealed  for  the  present.  Notwith- 
standing their  curiosity,  therefore,  they  had  respected 
the  secret,  and  had  forborne  to  way-lay  the  serving  man, 
and  extract  from  him,  as  they  were  longing  to  do,  a 
circumstantial  account  of  the  battle.  It  was  more  to 
guard  against  the  intrusion  of  outsiders,  than  against 
any  indiscretion  on  the  part  of  the  servants,  that  Walter 
entreated  Charles  and  Wentworth  to  keep  strictly  to  the 
alcove  room  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

They  were  sitting  here  in  anxious  talk,  waiting  for 

L 


146  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

Roger's  decision.  Walter,  despairing  already  of  the 
result,  declared  that  his  brother  would  turn  them  out  of 
doors,  as  soon  as  his  conscience  had  convinced  him,  as  it 
assuredly  would  do,  that  such  was  his  duty. 

"Truly,  friend,  I  for  one  could  scarce  blame  him," 
returned  Charles.  "  Were  I  myself  a  Puritan,  and  in 
mine  absence  found  my  house  suddenly  overrun  with  a 
pack  of  Cavalier  knaves,  the  keeping  of  whom  were 
death  to  me,  I  would  make  short  work  of  them.  Out 
they  should  all  go,  neck  and  crop.  I  scarce  see  how 
your  brother  can  come  to  any  other  conclusion." 

"Your  Majesty  doth  misjudge  my  friend,  and  thou, 
Walter,  thy  brother  most  grievously,"  said  Wentworth, 
earnestly.  "  He  is  a  Puritan,  but  likewise  a  man  of 
honour,  and  of  the  tenderest  heart  withal.  He  cannot 
do  it,  'tis  not  in  his  nature.  He  could  never  be  guilty  of 
so  foul  a  deed,  and  drive  us  all  to  certain  death.  I  had 
some  speech  with  him  before  you  came,  sir,  and  found 
him  the  same  Roger  as  of  old,  which  thy  words,  Walter, 
had  almost  caused  me  to  doubt." 

Wentworth's  passionate  vindication  of  his  friend  was 
interrupted  at  this  moment  by  a  low  knock  at  the  door. 
He  hastened  to  it,  and  cautiously  asked,  who  stood  there? 
To  his  surprise  he  received  for  answer  the  Royalist  pass- 
word "A  friend  to  Csesar."  He  turned  in  dismay  to 
Walter. 

"  Who  can  this  be  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  terrified  whisper. 
"  Some  one  is  here  who  knoweth  us  already.  We  are 
betrayed,  Walter." 

"  Prithee,  let  me  to  the  door,"  said  Walter.  "  I  shall 
know  who  it  is  by  the  voice."  And  putting  Wentworth 
aside,  he  bent  down  to  the  latch.  A  moment's  whispered 
conference  ensued,  while  Wentworth  waited  in  breathless 
anxiety.  Then  saying  over  his  shoulder :  "  All  is  well," 
Walter  unbolted  the  door  and  threw  it  open. 

Even  Charles  himself  was  not  proof  for  an  instant 
against  a  movement  of  alarm,  and  Wentworth  strode 
fiercely  up  to  the  new  comer,  his  hand  on  his  sword. 
For  Walter  had  admitted  none  other  than  a  Puritan 
minister,  in  orthodox  cassock  and  bands.  His  sour  face 


FATHER    MARTIN.  147 

wore  an  expression  of  more  than  ordinary  sanctity,  and 
his  short  grisly  beard  and  moustache  added  to  his 
forbidding  appearance. 

"  Whom  have  we  here  ? "  said  Charles,  forgetting  in 
his  astonishment  his  assumed  character  of  Will  Somers. 
11  Reverend  Sir,  you  have  mistaken  your  company.  We 
are,  alas !  no  Puritan  saints,  but  a  couple  of  as  arrant 
Cavalier  rogues  as  were  ever  doomed  to  perdition. 
Your  reverence  may  spare  your  prayers." 

For  only  answer  Master  Sturges  flung  himself  upon 
his  knees,  and  seizing  the  hand  of  the  poorly  clad  serving 
lad,  covered  it  with  tears  and  kisses. 

"  Tis  you  who  mistake,  my  liege,"  he  cried  at  last,  as 
well  as  his  sobs  would  permit  him,  "  but  I  wonder  not  at 
it.  Even  at  the  door  I  dared  not  remove  these  hateful 
disguises."  And  taking  off  his  false  beard  and  moustache, 
and  removing  the  small  velvet  cap  he  wore,  he  displayed 
the  smooth  shaven  face,  and  tonsured  head  of  a  Catholic 
priest.  Charles  was  fairly  startled  out  of  his  usual 
composure. 

"  Father  Martin !  my  dear  and  honoured  Father 
Martin !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion. 
"  Prithee  how,  in  the  name  of  all  the  Saints,  came  you 
hither?  Nay,  kneel  not  to  me.  'Tis  I  rather  who 
should  kneel  to  you,  and  crave  your  blessing.  My  good 
angel  it  is  who  hath  sent  you  to  me  in  my  sorest  need." 

Father  Martin  rose  from  his  knees  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

"  Alas !  that  ever  I  should  behold  you  in  this  plight, 
my  liege,"  he  said  tearfully.  "  Her  Majesty  the  Queen 
herself  would  scarce  know  you.  Yet  let  me  not  grieve 
over  much.  One  mercy  at  least  is  vouchsafed  us.  You 
are  here  hale  and  sound,  though  but  yesterday  your 
death  was  declared  to  me  by  a  soldier  of  the  fanatics, 
with  so  many  circumstances  thereof,  that  I  could  not 
but  believe  it." 

"  Heard  you  not  that  news  before,  father  ?  "  returned 
Charles,  laughing.  "  Myself  have  been  told  it  ten  times 
at  the  least.  I  am  in  a  manner  hardened  to  it ;  the  tale 
begins  to  pall  upon  me.  We  will  speak  of  other 
matters,  and  first  tell  me  how  came  you  hither  ?  " 


148  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Hath  it  not  then  reached  your  Majesty's  ears, — but 
no,  the  news  were  too  trifling, — that  I  am  now  Puritan 
minister  in  this  godly  parish  of  Ipswich  ?  " 

Charles  looked  at  the  speaker  for  a  moment,  then 
burst  out  into  so  merry  and  ringing  a  laugh,  that  Went- 
worth  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm  to  enjoin  caution. 

"You,  father,  parish  priest  here?  Tis  impossible. 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den  after  that  fashion  !  Nay, 
I  gave  you  not  credit  for  such  marvellous  courage. 
Pray  you  how  long  have  you  held  the  office  ?  " 

"  For  a  matter  of  a  year  and  more,"  returned  Father 
Martin,  composedly,  "  and  I  trust  I  have  been  enabled 
to  give  some  help  in  secret  to  the  good  cause." 

"  I  heard  nought  thereof,"  said  Charles.  "  No  news 
for  many  months  past  hath  been  suffered  to  come  to  mine 
ears,  save  such  as  it  hath  pleased  those  Presbyterian 
knaves  to  give  me.  I  tell  thee,  father,  such  a  life  did 
I  lead  in  Scotland,  what  with  the  Covenant,  and  the 
preaching  and  praying,  and  the  sermons  six  hours  in 
length,  to  listen  to  almost  daily,  that  even  these  my 
wanderings  seem  light  in  comparison." 

Charles  heaved  a  deep  sigh  at  the  recollection  of  his 
Scotch  experiences.  "  But  hold,"  he  continued,  "  are 
we  not  in  the  house  of  a  Puritan  ?  " 

"  Ay,  and  the  rankest  of  them  all,"  returned  Father 
Martin.  "  I  marvel  that  your  Majesty  was  brought 
hither  for  shelter.  There  is  no  more  hot-headed  zealot 
in  all  this  town  than  Master  Roger  Sparowe." 

"  Ah,  say  you  so  ?     Now  mark  him,  Ralph." 

"  He  hath  but  newly  made  a  journey  to  London," 
continued  the  priest,  "  of  set  purpose  to  have  me 
deprived  of  my  cure.  He  had  suspicions,"  he  said. 

"  And  not  without  reason,  I  trow.  There  were  enough 
in  his  own  house,  to  say  nothing  of  the  doings  in  the 
town,  to  cause  such  an  one  to  have  many  suspicions. 
He  is  no  fool,  is  this  same  Master  Roger  Sparowe. 
Why,  father,  an  the  good  folks  here  saw  you  now,  what, 
think  you,  were  your  fate  ?  Hanging  were  too  good." 

"  Twas  not  I  who  adventured  myself,  my  liege," 
returned  the  father,  quietly.  "  I  am  but  the  hand  that 


FATHER     MARTIN.  149 

executes  ;  our  Holy  Mother  Church,  the  true  head  of  us 
all,  bid  me  to  the  work.  From  her  I  received  the  com- 
mandment to  take  upon  me  this  post  of  danger,  and  I 
trust  there  are  some  who  have  cause  to  bless  my  coming." 

He  glanced  at  Walter  with  a  smile  full  of  meaning. 
The  young  man  coloured,  and  looked  on  the  ground. 

"  I  doubt  not,  father,"rsaid  Charles,  without  noticing 
his  last  words,  "  that  wheresoever  you  are,  the  Church 
finds  in  you  a  faithful  servant.  Nevertheless,^  seemeth 
a  hazardous  life  to  me.  But  how  heard  you  of  our 
coming  ?  " 

"  I  had  news  of  it  yesternight,"  answered  Father  Martin, 
"  and  hastened  hither  as  soon  as  safety  would  permit. 
For,  although  the  news  from  that  source  hath  always 
been  trustworthy,  this  that  was  told  me  was  so  passing 
strange,  that  I  could  not  believe  it,  till  I  had  beheld 
your  Majesty  with  mine  own  eyes." 

"  News  of  our  coming  yesternight  ?  "  said  Charles,  with 
a  puzzled  look.  "  But  how  save  through  Walter  here  ?  " 

"  Walter  told  me  not,"  returned  the  priest,  evasively. 
•'  Let  it  suffice  that  the  news  was  true.  And  now,  since 
your  Majesty  is  here,  suffer  me  to  say  that  you  can 
have  no  safer  messenger  than  my  poor  self.  I  am  well 
looked  on  by  all  the  townsfolk;  Mistress  Margaret  hath 
made  me  free  of  this  house,  and  I  can  bring  you  news 
without  fear." 

"We  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  good  offer,"  said  Went- 
worth,  who  had  stood  listening  to  the  conversation  in 
silence.  "  Since  it  pleases  the  King  to  trust  you,  we 
will  gladly  accept  your  help.  This  gentleman  is  known 
to  you  sir  ?  " 

"  Known  to  me !  Why,  man,  hast  never  heard  speak 
of  Father  Martin  ?  "  replied  Charles.  "  He  hath  been 
about  the  Court,  as  one  of  the  advisers  of  our  mother 
the  Queen,  since  I  was  a  child.  'Twas  he  who  helped 
to  sell  the  crown  jewels,  and  to  bring  arms  and  ammuni- 
tion into  the  kingdom,  for  the  furtherance  of  the  war, 
about  which  the  Parliament  men  made  so  rare  a  piece 
of  work.  I  trust  him,  Ralph,  as  I  would  thee." 

Wentworth  listened  respectfully,  but  his  face  showed 


150  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

that  he  was  ill-satisfied.  Like  many  other  ardent 
Royalists,  he  was  a  sincere  Protestant,  and  cordially 
disliked  the  constant  indentiflcation  of  the  King's  cause 
with  the  Papists.  It  was  inevitable  at  the  present 
crisis  ;  it  had,  apparently,  been  inevitable  all  through  the 
war,  but  Wentworth,  none  the  less,  was  as  bitterly 
opposed  as  any  Puritan  to  the  Queen  mother  and  her 
train  of  priests. 

14  Disdain  not  help,  even  though  it  come  from  a  Papist," 
said  a  low  voice  in  his  ear.  Wentworth  started.  The 
priest  was  looking  steadily  at  him,  with  a  smile  on  his 
face,  and  seemed  to  read  his  inmost  thoughts ;  but  before 
he  could  reply,  Father  Martin  went  on  aloud :  4<  From 
the  same  quarter  from  whence  I  received  news  of  your 
Majesty,  I  obtained  intelligence  of  some  boats  which  are 
about  to^start  for  Holland.  One  of  them,  it  is  hoped, 
will  serve  your  Majesty's  purpose,  and  convey  you  out 
of  the  country." 

44  That  were  good  news  indeed,"  said  Charles,  joyfully, 
44  the  best  1  could  have  at  this  time.  For  to  say  truth, 
our  lodging  here  is  of  the  strangest.  We  are  in  the 
house  of  a  godly  Puritan,  Master  Roger  Sparowe,  who 
hath  not  yet  consented  to  give  us  shelter.  While  we 
speak  he  is  deliberating,  peradventure  on  his  knees, 
after  the  manner  of  our  Scotch  friends,  whether  he  shall 
deliver  us  up  to  justice,  or  let  us  live." 

4<  Was  it  well  done  to  tell  him,  sir  ?  "  asked  Father 
Martin.  "Was  it  not  possible  to  hide  your  presence 
from  him  ?  " 

44  It  was  not  possible,"  answered  Charles,  quietly.  44 1 
would  not  have  it,  father ;  I  told  him  myself.  And  now, 
since  you  can  do  so  much,  have  you  no  power  to  soften 
the  heart  of  this  stern  fanatic,  that  he  may  keep  us  until 
the  morrow  ?  " 

44 1  can  do  nought  with  him,  sir,"  answered  the  priest. 
"  Master  Sparowe  hath  an  ill-opinion  of  me.  He 
suspected  me  from  the  first,  and  I  have  greatly 
marvelled  wherefore,  knowing  who  I  was,  he  hath  not 
openly  denounced  me." 

44 1  have  told  you  the  reason  of  it,  father,"  said  Walter, 


FATHER    MARTIN.  151 

coming  forward.  "  That  which  keeps  him  back  is  the 
fear  of  revealing  the  secret  of  the  passage,  which  he  and 
I  discovered  after  so  strange  a  fashion.  We  have  agreed 
to  guard  the  knowledge  of  it  jealously.  Only,"  he  went 
on,  turning  to  Charles,  "  when  your  Majesty's  life  was 
in  danger  over  at  Alnesbourne,  I  was  forced  to  disclose 
it.  But  I  have  besought  you,  sir,  to  speak  to  none  of 
the  means  by  which  you  entered  this  house." 

"  We  are  silent  as  the  grave,"  answered  Charles, 
lightly.  "  Tut,  man,  I  have  made  acquaintance,  since 
the  day  of  Worcester  fight,  with  so  many  secret  ways 
and  passages,  and  hidden  chambers,  and  closets  built 
into  chimneys,  that  I  should  be  hard  put  to  it,  six  months 
hence,  to  remember  any  one  of  them." 

"  Concerning  this  boat  for  the  Low  Countries?  "  asked 
Wentworth,  anxiously.  "  What  news  do  you  bring  us, 
father  ?  " 

"  Those  that  are  busying  themselves  in  the  matter," 
said  Father  Martin,  mysteriously,  "  have  already  partly 
gained  the  master  of  a  small  boat,  which  hath  arrived 
these  few  days  since  from  Holland.  Interest  hath  been 
made  with  him,  for  the  consideration  of  a  round  sum  of 
money,  to  load  again  at  once,  and  put  to  sea,  taking  on 
board  a  gentleman  who  hath  given  his  creditors  the  slip, 
and  his  servant.  Thus  far  have  the  negotiations  pro- 
gressed. The  man  is  almost  won,  and  I  am  sent  hither 
to  your  Majesty  to  arrange  for  the  final  settlement." 

"  When  can  the  man  be  ready  ?  "  asked  Wentworth. 

"  To-morrow  night,  it  may  be,  or  the  night  after.  He 
hath  to  victual  his  boat,  and  to  get  together  some  kind 
of  cargo,  that  his  hasty  departure,  when  he  is  but  newly 
arrived,  raise  not  suspicion." 

"  How  serves  the  tide  ?  "  said  Wentworth. 

"  That  I  know  not.  It  were  an  easy  matter  for  me  to 
come  here  again,  and  acquaint  you  with  the  hour  of 
sailing  ;  but  those  that  sent  me  judged  it  wise  to  have 
some  signal  betwixt  us,  if  it  were  possible." 

"A  signal  were  best,"  said  Wentworth,  decisively.  "It 
may  be  safe  for  you,  father,  to  come  hither,  but  not  so 
safe  for  the  King  to  be  seen  in  your  company  " 


152  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  From  whence  doth  the  boat  sail  ?  "  asked  Walter. 

"  From  Harwich,"  answered  Father  Martin,  "  but  'tis 
agreed  that  she  shall  come  up  the  river  as  far  as  her 
draught  will  permit.  A  light  river  skiff  shall  be  kept  in 
readiness  here,  near  Stoke  Bridge,  and  your  Majesty  can 
drop  down  in  her,  as  soon  as  the  boat  appears." 

"  At  Stoke  Bridge,  beyond  St.  Peter's  Church  ? " 
asked  Walter  again.  "The  signal  then  is  easy.  Let 
them  show  a  light  from  the  mast-head  of  the  boat, 
and  we  can  see  it  from  the  little  window  in  the  chapel. 
You  know  it  well,  father.  We  have  often  watched  the 
ships  in  the  river  from  thence." 

Walter's  plan  seemed  feasible,  and  was  readily 
adopted.  It  was  agreed  that  the  signal  should  be  a  light 
three  times  shown,  at  intervals  of  a  minute,  from  the 
boat.  Everything  appeared  to  promise  well,  when 
Charles,  who  had  listened  with  his  usual  careless  air, 
suddenly  struck  into  the  conversation. 

"  Hold,  father,"  he  said,  "one  thing  hath  been  for- 
gotten. Let  the  skipper  know  that  he  hath  three 
passengers  to  convey." 

"  Three  !  "  exclaimed  Father  Martin  in  consternation. 
"  Sir,  it  is  impossible.  The  pass  is  for  two  only.  The 
man  will  raise  some  demur,  and  cry  off  from  his  bargain, 
when  he  findeth  the  number  of  fugitives  increased." 

"  We  will  all  go  or  none,"  answered  Charles.  "  Think 
you  I  will  leave  this  lad  behind  ?  We  owe  it  to  him 
that  we  are  here  at  all." 

"  It  cannot  be,"  cried  Father  Martin  wringing  his 
hands  in  despair.  "  Would  your  Majesty,  then,  imperil 
your  own  precious  person  for  the  sake  of  a  boy  ?  " 

"  If  need  be,  yes, "  replied  Charles,  firmly.  "  Had  he 
not  led  us  by  cross-roads  and  bye-ways  so  intricate  that 
none  had  known  them  save  one  born  in  the  country, 
we  could  never  have  baffled  the  hot  pursuit.  Without 
him,  those  hounds  of  fanatics  had  trapped  us  long  ago. 
And  hath  he  not  placed  his  whole  family  in  jeopardy  to 
save  my  worthless  life  ?  You  mistake  me,  father.  He 
shall  not  be  left  behind." 

"  Think  not  of  me,  my  liege,"  cried  Walter,  flinging 


FATHER    MARTIN.  153 

himself  on  his  knees  and  covering  Charles' hand  with  tears 
and  kisses.  "  Better  that  I  should  die  a  thousand  deaths 
than  a  hair  of  your  Majesty's  head  should  be  imperilled." 

Charles  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  rough  crop  of  short 
black  hair.  "  Good  Master  Walter,"  quoth  he,  with  a 
smile,  "  all  the  hair  on  mine  head  would  scarce  make  one 
of  your  dainty  love  locks.  Wilmot's  shears  did  their 
work  well,  methinks.  But  as  regards  this  matter,  save 
yourselves  further  speech.  My  resolve  is  taken." 

In  vain  did  Wentworth  and  Father  Martin  expostulate. 
Charles,  usually  so  easily  led,  was  for  once  immoveable, 
and  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Walter  himself,  when  he  tear- 
fully begged  to  be  allowed  to  shift  for  his  own  safety." 

"  With  a  Puritan  brother,  and  a  town  full  of  fanatic 
soldiers,  fresh  from  victory.  Nay,  man,  I  know  the 
country  better  than  you.  In  three  days'  time  the  place 
will  be  too  hot  to  hold  any  one  of  us.  Thy  brother 
protect  thee  !  Why,  they  will  put  such  force  upon  his 
conscience  that  he  will  think,  forsooth,  it  is  his  bounden 
duty  to  deliver  thee  up.  Either  thou  shalt  come  with 
us,  or  we  will  all  stay." 

Sorely  against  his  better  judgment,  Father  Martin 
was  forced  to  promise  that,  through  the  mysterious 
agency  to  which  he  had  already  referred,  he  would 
arrange  with  the  skipper  to  take  Walter  also  on  board. 
He  contented  himself  with  warning  his  confederates  that 
the  whole  negotiation  might  thereby  fall  through.  As 
to  leaving  the  house  unseen,  as  soon  as  the  signal  was 
given  from  the  river,  that  was  no  difficult  matter.  A 
sort  of  alcove,  adorned  with  huge  figures  painted  in 
Dutch  tiles,  ran  the  length  of  the  two  sitting  rooms  on 
the  ground  floor,  on  the  opposite  side  to  the  courtyard. 
It  ended  in  a  passage  leading  to  a  small  side  door,  which 
opened  into  a  lane  at  the  back  of  the  house.  The  lane 
joined  the  road  which  led  in  almost  a  straight  line  to 
St.  Peter's  Church,  and  on  to  the  river  side.  This  was 
the  exit  Walter  proposed  to  make  use  of,  and  as  the 
servants'  rooms  were  all  in  the  other  part  of  the  house, 
he  hoped  that  the  travellers  would  be  able  to  slip  out 
unperceived. 


154  A  KINO'S  RANSOM. 

Matters  being  at  last  arranged,  Father  Martin  rose  to 
take  his  leave.  There  was  a  pause,  as  he  drew  his 
cassock  over  his  shoulders,  which  the  warmth  of  the 
room  had  made  him  throw  off.  He  hesitated,  as  if 
something  still  remained  to  be  said,  and  glanced  doubt- 
fully at  Walter.  Then,  approaching  Charles,  the  priest 
said  something  to  him  in  a  low  voice.  Charles  started, 
and  looked  at  his  companions. 

"Here,  father?  In  the  house  of  a  Puritan?  How 
could  such  a  thing  be  ?  For  his  brother's  sake,  Master 
Walter  dare  not  connive." 

"  Walter  would  not  only  connive,  but  rejoice  to  par- 
ticipate," returned  Father  Martin.  "  Your  Majesty 
hath  seen  the  chapel  here.  Many  a  time  since  my 
coming  hath  it  been  put  to  its  rightful  use." 

"  'Tis  not  for  me  to  make  objection,"  returned  Charles, 
shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  albeit  I  am  not  altogether  of 
your  way  of  thinking,  father.  If  Walter  here  hath 
nought  to  say  to  it "... 

"  The  Sparowes  were  of  the  true  faith  formerly,  my 
liege.  The  father  of  these  lads  was  the  first  Puritan  of 
the  stock." 

"  Well,  be  it  so,  then,"  said  Charles,  with  a  curious 
smile.  "  This  house  is  full  of  mystery,  but  none,  me- 
thinks,  is  greater  than  this,  that  the  Catholic  worship 
should  be  established  under  the  roof  of  a  fanatic.  Doth 
he  know  of  it  ?  Marry,  I  never  felt  compassion  for  a 
Puritan  before,  but  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  pity 
Master  Roger  Sparowe." 

Charles'  pity  would  probably  have  been  mixed  with 
contempt,  could  he  have  seen  how  Roger  was  employed 
at  this  moment.  Deceived  by  his  brother,  thwarted  by 
his  dearest  friend,  entangled  in  a  web  of  intrigue  and 
duplicity  utterly  abhorrent  to  his  candid  nature;  and, 
above  all,  burdened  with  the  most  frightful  responsibility 
ever  thrust  upon  unwilling  shoulders,  Roger  had,  on 
entering  his  room,  flung  himself  on  his  knees.  In  this 
attitude  he  remained  for  hours.  As  a  Puritan,  he  was 
bound  to  believe  himself  one  of  the  elect,  to  whom  the 
Divine  light  and  guidance  would  always,  and  on  the 


FATHER    MARTIN.  155 

instant,  be  vouchsafed.  But,  alas !  pray  as  he  would, 
the  light  did  not  come.  No  answer  seemed  to  be  given 
to  his  passionate  supplication,  no  heaven-sent  impulse 
showed  him  what  he  ought  to  do.  In  despair  he  sprang 
to  his  feet,  and  snatched  up  his  Bible,  "  to  try  the  spirits 
by  the  Word  of  God."  It  was  a  method  of  solving 
doubts  much  in  favour  among  the  Puritans,  but  it  also 
failed  him.  Not  a  text  could  he  find  applicable  to  his 
present  difficulties. 

Then  Roger  began  to  torture  himself  with  rigid  self- 
examination.  Heaven  could  not  be  wrong ;  it  must  be 
some  sin  within  his  own  heart  which  kept  back  the 
answer  to  his  prayer.  He  tested  his  purity  of  motive 
by  every  method  of  self-analysis  practised  in  a  morbidly 
religious  age,  till  the  natural  result  ensued,  and  he 
fancied  himself  the  most  depraved  of  sinners.  But  still 
the  heavens  "  were  as  brass  above  him." 

From  a  worldly  point  of  view,  there  could  be  no 
question  of  the  course  he  should  adopt.  Apparently 
interest  and  religion  were  for  once  agreed.  Both  bade 
him  set  his  conscience  at  rest,  and  deliver  the  men  up 
to  justice,  who  had  taken  shelter  under  his  roof,  without 
his  permission  or  knowledge.  That  one  was  his  brother, 
and  another  his  friend,  was  an  argument  which,  he 
knew,  ought  not  to  influence  him.  Any  Puritan  casuist 
would  have  told  him  that  the  guilt  of  the  third  party 
far  outweighed  any  tender  considerations  to  which  the 
other  fugitives  might  be  entitled.  If  the  argument 
were  raised,  that  no  crime  could  be  alleged  against 
Charles,  save  that  he  had  taken  up  arms  to  resist  a 
government  which  he  regared  as  a  usurpation  of  his 
rights,  Roger  would  not  have  endorsed  it.  To  him,  as 
to  every  Puritan,  the  very  name  of  Stuart  was  hateful. 
He  was  willing  to  acknowledge  his  pledge  to  Wentworth, 
but  no  tie  of  loyalty  bound  him  to  Wentworth's  master. 

The  more  Roger  pondered  the  question,  the  more 
bewildered  he  became.  If  he  gave  the  fugitives  up  to 
justice,  or  sent  them  away,  he  would  be  lacking  in  the 
Christian  charity  he  was  bound  to  show  to  all  men.  If 
he  allowed  them  to  remain,  he  would  have  to  bear  the 


156  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

sting  of  a  guilty  conscience,  to  lend  himself  to  tacit,  if 
not  open  deceit,  and  to  incur,  as  he  verily  believed,  the 
anger  of  the  Lord.  He  rose  from  his  knees,  and  paced 
the  room,  moody  and  defiant.  Since  light  came  not, 
since  help  was  not  vouchsafed,  his  baser  nature  began 
to  get  the  upper  hand.  He  would  send  these  men  away, 
with  as  much  care  for  their  safety  as  possible.  He 
would  not  for  their  sakes  forfeit  his  peace  of  mind,  nor 
blight  all  his  hopes.  For  assuredly,  if  tidings  came  to 
Master  Burroughs'  ears  that  Roger  was  tampering  with 
the  Royalists,  to  say  nothing  of  harbouring  the  arch- 
traitor  himself,  the  young  man  would  fare  badly  at 
his  hands. 

Suddenly,  as  he  stood  by  an  open  window,  his  last 
conversation  with  Alice  Burroughs  came  to  his  mind. 
Again  he  seemed  to  hear  her  soft  voice  saying :  "  We 
forget  oftentimes  the  simple  law  of  charity  to  our 
neighbours."  And  in  an  instant  all  the  elaborate 
arguments  he  had  built  up  to  justify  himself,  fell  to 
pieces,  and  Roger  knew  that  he  could  not  follow  his  own 
wishes,  that  he  dared  not  sacrifice  these  men,  who  had 
trusted  their  lives  in  his  hands,  be  they  who  they  might. 
And  after  this  manner  his  prayer  was  heard. 

An  hour  later,  when  he  came  to  the  alcove  room,  he 
found  Wentworth  alone.  His  friend  did  not  guess,  as 
Roger  quietly  announced  that  he  was  willing  to  run  the 
risk  of  giving  shelter  to  him  and  his  companion,  through 
what  a  conflict  the  young  man  had  passed.  Roger's 
pale  face  was  as  calm  as  usual.  He  seemed  indeed 
far  less  agitated  than  Wentworth,  who,  since  the  others 
left  him,  had  paced  the  room  incessantly,  chafing 
against  his  own  bitter,  anxious  thoughts.  The  high- 
minded  Cavalier  was  sorely  troubled  at  the  further 
deception  to  which  he  had  been  forced  unwillingly  to  lend 
himself.  He  could  not  endure  to  think  that  the  King  he 
so  passionately  loved  was,  at  this  moment,  taking  part 
in  a  Catholic  service.  Nor  was  he  comforted  by  the 
careless  remark  Charles  had  whispered  to  him  as  he  left 
the  room,  that  "  anything  was  better  than  those  canting 
Presbyterian  sermons." 


FATHER   MARTIN.  157 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  Roger  to  find  that  his 
inconvenient  guests  were  as  anxious  to  take  their 
departure,  as  he  to  be  rid  of  them.  But  when 
Wentworth  began  to  enter  into  the  question  of  ways 
and  means,  Roger  stopped  him. 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  know  what  thou  art  about  to 
do,"  he  said.  "  It  were  far  safer  not  to  tell  me.  This 
house  is  for  thy  use,  and  thy  companions,  as  long  as 
ye  choose  to  remain  here,  but  prithee  seek  not  much 
speech  of  me.  For  your  own  sakes,  and  not  to  raise 
suspicions,  it  were  better  thus.  Let  me  go  mine  own 
way  as  heretofore." 

"  Thou  art  right,  Roger,  but  it  grieves  me  to  bring  thee 
to  it.  I  know  thy  tender  conscience  putteth  thee  to  sore 
straits.  Alack  that  I  am  forced  to  ask  so  much  of  thee !  " 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  these  things,  Ralph,"  answered 
Roger,  quietly,  "  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness. 
I  trust  only  that  the  Lord  hath  given  me  grace  to  see 
what  I  ought  to  do." 

"  Nay,  thine  own  honourable  nature  it  is  which  hath 
led  thee  right.  'Tis  the  old  story,  Roger.  A  Sparowe 
and  a  Wentworth,  and  a  Sparowe  giveth  himself  again 
for  his  friend.  Wouldest  thou  have  done  it  without  me, 
and  the  pledge  I  was  bound  to  claim  of  thee  ?  Pray 
God  thou  lose  not  in  the  end  that  which  might  be  dearer 
than  life  itself." 

"  Tis  done  now,  Ralph.  Prithee  speak  not  further  of 
it,"  answered  Roger,  hastily.  "  Meanwhile  there  is  one 
thing  more  I  would  ask  of  thee,  and  then  it  shall  be 
agreed  between  us,  not  to  see  each  other,  unless  need 
arise.  My  mother — how  much  does  she  know  of  this 
business  ?  " 

"  She  hath  only  heard,"  answered  Wentworth,  "  that 
I  am  here,  and  that  I  have  a  young  serving  man  in  my 
company.  But  thou  wilt  see  her  shortly,  and  I  beseech 
thee,  friend,  enjoin  earnestly  upon  her  the  fearful  need 
for  secrecy.  Charge  her,  as  she  values  her  son's  life, 
that  she  tell  no  one  of  our  coming.  I  fear  thy  mother's 
tongue,  Roger,  more  than  ought  else,  but  thou  knowest, 
doubtless,  how  to  deal  with  her." 


158  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  I  will  do  thy  behest  to  the  utmost,"  answered  Roger. 
"  And  now,  Ralph,  we  part.  Prithee  fret  not  thyself 
because  of  any  hurt  thou  doest  me.  If  harm  come  of 
this  business,  I  am  well  able  to  bear  it.  My  life  is  not 
more  at  stake  than  thine." 

"  Ah,  if  thou  wert  one  of  us ! "  sighed  Wentworth,  his 
dark  eyes  suddenly  moist  with  tears.  "  Ours  is  a  noble 
cause,  fit  to  nerve  any  man  to  act  the  hero,  but  thou 
hast  no  such  consolation." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Roger,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  to  me 
mine  seemeth  the  nobler  cause.  Canst  thou  not  believe 
in  it,  Ralph  ?  For  what  higher  purpose  can  a  man 
strive  than  to  do  right  ?  " 

"  But  thy  duty,  were  it  not,  to  deliver  us  up  ?  " 

"  So  I  thought  this  morning,"  answered  Roger,  "  but 
now  I  see  it  otherwise.  The  Lord  hath  shown  me  that 
I  have  a  duty  to  my  neighbour,  as  well  as  to  mine  own 
soul." 

"  How,  to  thy  neighour  only !  "  echoed  Ralph,  frown- 
ing. "  Dost  thou  not  owe  allegiance  to  the  King  ?  " 

"  We  have  a  King  over  us,  and  His  name  is  the  Lord 
of  Hosts,"  answered  Roger.  "  He  whom  thou  callest 
King  is  no  more  to  me  than  Charles  Stuart." 

"  Why  dost  thou  shelter  us,  then,  if  thou  dost  not 
hold  thyself  bound  to  the  King  ?  " 

"  For  love  of  thee,  Ralph,  and  Walter.  And  likewise, 
and  chiefly,  because  I  take  it  to  be  the  will  of  the  Lord, 
and  my  duty." 

Wenthworth  took  his  friend's  hand.  "  So  thou  do  it, 
Roger,  that  is  all  we  ask  of  thee.  Whether  from  love 
of  thy  King  and  thy  cause,  as  thou  sayest,  or  for  love  of 
our  King  and  cause,  the  act  is  tbe  same,  and  I  thank 
thee  heartily." 

And  with  these  words,  the  two  men  embraced,  and 
went  their  ways. 


159 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE    FACE   AT  THE   WINDOW. 


MASTER  NEHEMIAH  BURROUGHS  had  been  in  much 
perplexity  of  mind  since  Roger's  last  visit  to  Mote  End. 
The  young  man's  suit  for  his  daughter's  hand  had  taken 
the  old  Puritan  at  unawares,  and  he  was  not  sure 
whether  the  ambiguous  answer  he  had  returned  had 
been  altogether  wise.  He  had  no  intention  of  losing  so 
excellent  a  prospect  of  settling  his  daughter  in  life.  In 
every  respect  save  one,  no  better  son-in-law  could  be 
desired  than  Roger  Sparrowe. 

He  was  rich  in  land,  the  only  form  wealth  could  take 
in  those  days.  About  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  before, 
a  younger  branch  of  the  Sparowes  had  migrated  from 
their  original  home  at  Somersham  to  Ipswich.  The 
elder  line  had  failed,  and  the  Somersham  estates,  which 
were  strictly  entailed,  had  reverted  to  the  Ipswich 
representatives  of  the  family.  They  had  also  acquired 
considerable  property  in  the  town  itself,  and  Roger 
Sparowe,  now  head  of  the  house,  owned  much  land  in 
the  county. 

Furthermore,  he  had  the  inestimable  advantage  of 
birth.  The  Sparowes  had  not,  it  is  true,  come  over  with 
the  Conqueror,  but  so  many  noble  families  had  perished 
in  the  Wars  of  the  Roses  that  it  was  a  distinction  only 
to  have  survived  them.  Wealth  could  be  acquired. 
Estates,  since  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries,  were 
plentiful;  but  ancient  descent,  as  Master  Burroughs, 
who  traced  his  own  from  his  grandfather,  a  silk  mercer 
in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  sometimes  ruefully 
acknowledged,  was  unattainable.  The  more  he  thought 
of  Roger  Sparowe,  and  of -Roger  Sparowe's  ancestors, 
the  more  delighted  he  felt  at  the  thought  of  connecting 
himself  with  him. 


160  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

There  was  one  drawback  to  this  glowing  prospect. 
Roger  Sparowe  shared  his  ancestral  home,  not  only 
with  his  mother,  a  vain  and  foolish  woman,  a  Royalist 
and  an  Anglican,  but  with  a  brother  who,  if  report 
spoke  true,  leaned  strongly  to  Popery  itself.  Rumours 
had  reached  Master  Borroughs  that  young  Walter 
Sparowe,  for  all  his  innocent,  boyish  face,  and  frank 
manners,  was  deeply  concerned  in  Malignant,  and  even 
in  Catholic  plots.  It  had  actually  been  whispered  to 
him,  under  the  seal  of  the  strictest  secrecy,  that  there 
was  one  chamber  in  the  Old  House  never  opened,  and 
unknown  perhaps  even  to  the  master,  where  the 
abomination  of  the  Mass  itself  had  been  perpetrated. 

To  look  into  Roger's  earnest  candid  face,  was  enough 
to  know  that  he  was  not  privy  to  such  foul  deeds,  but 
Master  Nehemiah  was  not  satisfied.  Roger  was  an 
excellent  youth,  a  godly  youth,  but  he  lacked  the  zeal 
against  the  enemies  of  the  Lord  which  formed  so 
prominent  a  feature  of  the  Puritan  code.  Before  his 
carefully  trained  daughter  could  enter  the  house,  Master 
Burroughs  felt  that  it  must  be  purified  from  the 
least  taint  of  suspicion.  Mistress  Margaret  might  be 
honourably  banished  to  the  family  dower  house,  and  if 
there  were  any  difficulties  in  the  way  of  an  income  for 
her,  he  was  ready  to  bear  his  share.  But  it  was  still 
more  necessary  that  the  scapegrace,  Walter,  should  be 
forbidden  to  return  to  the  house  for  ever,  unless  he  gave 
satisfactory  proof  of  repentance  and  amendment. 

But  now  Master  Burroughs  was  thrown  into  fresh 
perplexity  of  mind.  Tidings  reached  him  through  a 
reliable  channel  that  this  worthless  fellow,  Walter, 
who  had  saved  his  head  at  Worcester,  when  far  better 
men  were  killed,  was  not  only  himself  in  hiding  at  the 
Old  House,  but  had  brought  two  or  three  other 
fugitives  with  him.  Master  Nehemiah  could  not  believe 
it.  Roger  had  positively  declared,  only  two  days  ago 
that  he  and  his  brother  had  quarrelled  and  parted  for 
ever,  and  yet,  if  report  spoke  true,  Walter  was  actually 
at  that  very  moment  under  his  roof.  If  this  were  so,  if 
Roger  had  been  guilty  of  such  gross  deception,  Master 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW.  161 

Burroughs  swore — for  although  a  Puritan,  he  did  swear 
sometimes,  under  great  provocation — that  the  young 
man  had  paid  his  last  visit  to  Mote  End,  and  taken  his 
last  look  at  fair  Mistress  Alice. 

Master  Nehemiah  was  puzzled.  There  was  a  mystery 
somewhere,  which  even  his  astuteness  could  not  fathom. 
He  knew  Roger  too  well,  lightly  to  credit  him  with  false 
dealing.  At  last  he  seemed  to  see  his  way  out  of  the 
difficulty.  He  would  pay  Master  Sparowe  a  visit,  without 
previous  notice,  and  taking  him  thus  at  unawares,  he 
would  be  able  to  judge  if  he  were  maligned  or  no. 

He  approached  his  task  diplomatically.  Knowing  that 
Roger  would  have  to  be  cautiously  treated,  and  the 
secret — if  there  were  one — drawn  from  him  in  the  most 
guarded  manner,  the  sharp-witted  old  Puritan  determined 
to  take  Alice  with  him.  He  would  tell  her  nothing.  It 
would  not  be  safe  to  breathe  the  report  to  her,  for, 
guileless  as  she  was,  she  was  sure  to  betray  her  know- 
ledge. But  it  was  just  possible  that  Roger,  if  really  in 
trouble,  might  confide  his  difficulties  to  her,  and  he 
was  certain  to  be  so  engrossed  by  her,  that  Master 
Burroughs  would  be  able  to  pursue  his  investigations 
undisturbed. 

Kezia  had  now  recovered  from  her  sickness,  and  great 
was  her  wrath  when  she  found  that  her  father  intended 
to  take  her  younger  sister  instead  of  her.  Visits  in  those 
days  were  matters  of  much  ceremony,  and  it  was 
almost  a  point  of  honour  with  Kezia — much  as  she 
hated  Mistress  Sparowe — to  go  herself.  She  alleged 
half-a-dozen  domestic  duties  as  a  reason  for  keeping 
Alice  at  home,  and  was  not  more  mortified  than 
astonished  when  her  father  overruled  them  all.  Master 
Burroughs  had  an  object  in  view,  and  even  Kezia's 
imperative  wishes  could  not  be  allowed  to  stand  in 
the  way. 

One  fine  afternoon  in  September,  therefore,  the  very 
day  after  the  last  sheaf  of  corn  had  been  carried  home, 
Alice  mounted  pillion  behind  her  father,  and  rode  off  to 
pay  her  first  visit  to  the  Old  House.  Yes,  she  was  verily 
going  at  last  to  see  Master  Sparowe's  house,  of  which 

M 


162  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

she  had  heard  so  much.  Strange  to  say,  although  she 
lived  so  near,  she  had  scarcely  been  a  dozen  times  in 
Ipswich  in  her  life.  Ladies  in  those  days  seldom  or 
never  left  their  homes.  They  were  too  necessary  to 
their  households  and  their  poor  neighbours  to  be  much 
abroad.  The  housekeeping  at  Mote  End,  under  Kezia's 
vigorous  rule,  was  not  so  onerous  but  that  Alice  might 
sometimes  have  been  spared.  But  the  disturbed  state 
of  the  country  for  the  last  ten  years,  furnished  an 
ample  excuse  for  keeping  her  a  prisoner  within  the  grim 
walls  of  Mote  End.  This  journey  to  the  Old  House, 
therefore,  from  the  moment  her  father  proposed  it, 
assumed  in  hereyes  a  quite  immeasurable  importance.  It 
was  an  epoch  in  her  uneventful  life.  Outwardly  calm 
and  composed  as  usual,  she  was  inwardly  brimming  over 
with  girlish  excitement  and  delight,  as  she  tripped  down 
the  broad  steps,  gave  her  hand  to  her  father,  and  was 
swung  lightly  up  to  the  pillion. 

Another  day  had  come,  and  Roger  Sparowe,  partly  in 
dismay,  partly  in  exultation,  reckoned  that  his  dangerous 
guests  had  already  been  nearly  forty-eight  hours  under 
his  roof.  The  time  had  gone  so  slowly  that  it  seemed 
as  if  he  had  been  living  for  months  on  the  edge  of  a 
volcano.  That  morning,  however,  Wentworth  had 
positively  assured  him  that  the  fugitives  would  no  longer 
require  the  generous  shelter  he  gave  them.  The  final 
arrangements  had  now  been  made  for  a  ship  to  convey 
them  to  Holland,  and  the  skipper  was  only  waiting  for 
a  favourable  tide  to  run  up  as  near  the  town  as  possible 
and  take  them  off.  Since  early  morning  watch  had 
been  kept  at  the  window  looking  from  the  chapel,  to 
catch  the  first  signal  which  was  to  bid  them  prepare  to 
start.  At  his  own  request,  Roger  was  left  in  ignorance 
of  the  time  of  their  actual  departure.  He  only  knew 
that  to-night,  at  latest,  would  see  his  house  freed  from 
these  terrible  visitors.  Twelve  hours  more  and  he  was 
safe! 

Considering  all  the  events  which  had  since  happened, 
it  is  scarcely  wonderful  that  Roger's  visit  to  Mote  End 
seemed  for  the  time  a  matter  of  secondary  importance. 


THE    FACE    AT   THE    WINDOW.  163 

He  had  hardly  leisure  of  mind  to  think  of  it  at  all,  and 
when  he  did,  it  was  as  a  fair  dream  which  he  had  dreamt 
long  ago.  The  interest  of  it  had  paled  before  weightier 
concerns.  It  was  far  enough  from  his  thoughts  now, 
as  he  stood  in  one  of  the  beautiful  oriel  windows  of  the 
large  banqueting  room.  He  could  not  set  about  his 
ordinary  business,  though  he  knew  that  nothing  would 
more  certainly  give  rise  to  suspicions  than  this  desultory 
loitering.  Suddenly  he  saw  a  big  horse  and  a  well- 
known  rider  crossing  the  open  market  place.  He  leant 
forward  in  horror.  He  could  not  be  mistaken.  It  was 
the  burly  form  of  Master  Burroughs,  and  behind  him, 
peeping  over  his  shoulder,  a  fair  face  flushed  with 
pleasure  and  excitement.  Father  and  daughter  appeared 
like  strangers  from  another  land.  Never  before  had 
Mistress  Alice  come  to  see  him,  and  now  the  sight  of 
her  filled  Roger  with  amazement  and  consternation. 
Fate  was  hard  upon  him.  At  any  other  time,  with  what 
unutterable  joy  would  he  have  welcomed  the  lady  of  his 
love! 

He  shook  off  these  thoughts  with  a  strong  effort,  and 
went  down  to  greet  his  guests.  But  the  touch  of  Alice's 
hand,  as  he  helped  her  to  alight,  sent  a  fresh  pang  of 
terror  through  him.  What  if  she  should  guess  any- 
thing !  see  anything !  If  the  terrible  secret  he  was 
guarding  at  the  risk  of  his  life  should  come  to  her 
knowledge !  As  he  led  her  ceremoniously  into  the  great 
hall,  where  Mistress  Margaret  had  not  yet  appeared, 
and  excused  his  mother's  momentary  absence,  his  heart 
was  beating  wildly.  And  his  alarm  was  not  groundless. 
Master  Burroughs,  as  he  entered  the  hall,  cast  a  sharp 
inquisitive  glance  round  it,  and  into  every  corner,  which 
warned  Roger  that  the  visit  was  not  without  a  purpose. 

It  was  assumed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the 
travellers  had  come  to  dinner.  No  one,  in  those 
hospitable  days,  paid  a  visit,  even  at  a  distance  of  a  few 
rniles  only,  without  being  invited  to  break  their  fast,  and 
a  refusal  would  have  been  an  insult  to  the  host.  Master 
Burroughs  of  course  protested  that  his  boots  were  not 
fit  for  a  lady's  dining  room,  and  Alice  that  she  was  in 


164  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

travelling  costume,  but  the  moment  she  removed  her 
cloak,  she  showed  that  she  was  speaking  for  form's  sake 
only.  Puritan  though  she  was,  her  dress  would  bear 
comparison  with  Mistress  Margaret's  much  more 
elaborate  attire.  There  was  always  about  her  a  certain 
exquisite  freshness,  as  if  she  came  straight  that  very 
moment  from  her  toilette,  and  she  did  not  belie  her 
usual  appearance  to-day.  There  was  not  a  speck  of 
dust  from  the  journey  on  her  grey  gown,  as  she  shook  it 
out  into  soft  folds  round  her.  Her  white  linen  collar 
and  cuffs  were  as  spotless  as  if  she  had  that  moment 
put  them  on  ;  and  the  kerchief  at  her  throat,  edged  with 
a  little  embroidery  worked  by  her  own  dainty  fingers, 
was  of  the  finest  and  clearest  lawn. 

Dame  Margaret,  being  town  bred,  had  always  affected 
a  certain  elegance  and  richness  of  dress  which  were 
not  strictly  in  keeping  with  a  country  squire's  wife. 
Although  a  housekeeper  who  saw  to  everything  herself, 
she  would  sometimes  have  found  time  hang  heavy  on 
her  hands,  had  not  the  care  of  her  wardrobe  proved  an 
unfailing  source  of  occupation  and  amusement.  And 
dress  at  that  period  assumed  a  real  importance  and 
significance.  Men  and  women,  men  perhaps  more  than 
woman,  were  ranked  according  to  the  plainness  or 
richness  of  their  attire,  in  one  or  other  of  the  two 
great  parties  into  which  England  was  divided. 

Mistress  Margaret,  therefore,  the  moment  the  tidings 
of  Master  Burroughs'  arrival  reached  her,  determined 
to  affront  the  stern  old  Puritan  with  one  of  her  richest 
gowns.  Joan  acted  as  tire-woman  on  these  occasions, 
and  desperate  were  the  struggles  of  mistress  and  maid 
not  to  keep  the  guests  waiting  longer  than  courtesy 
would  allow,  and  yet  to  arrange  stomacher,  lace  collar, 
and  ruffles  with  becoming  taste.  If  the  lady's  mis- 
chievous intention  was  to  irritate  her  guest,  she  amply 
succeeded.  At  sight  of  her  costly  gown,  the  price  of  a 
month's  wage  to  a  poor  man,  Master  Burroughs  felt  the 
same  movement  of  fanatical  rage  as  was  excited  in  him 
by  all  the  proceedings  of  the  Royalists.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  beheld  the  skirts  of  the  scarlet  woman  of 


THE    FACE    AT   THE    WINDOW.  165 

Babylon.  He  could  have  torn  the  dress  off  Mistress 
Margaret's  back,  and  her  manifest  pleasure  in  her  own 
appearance  only  increased  his  anger.  But  he  controlled 
himself.  The  lady  of  the  gorgeous  gown  might  per- 
chance be  exceedingly  useful  to  him  before  the  day 
was  over. 

Out  of  the  little  company  who  gathered  round  the 
table  Alice  was  the  least  agitated.  Yet  even  she  was 
not  as  composed  as  usual.  Her  heart  beat  foolishly 
every  time  Roger  Sparowe  came  near  her,  and  she  was 
childishly  awed  at  the  sight  of  his  mother,  whom  she 
had  not  seen  a  dozen  times  before,  and  who  impressed 
her  now,  as  always,  with  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
aristocratic  grace  and  elegance.  Alice  blushed  to  think 
that,  two  days  ago,  she  had  actually  taken  upon  herself 
to  plead  the  cause  of  this  stately  lady.  Never  had  she 
felt  more  awkward  and  country-bred.  Never  had  she 
been  more  convinced  that  she  was  utterly  unfit  for  the 
position  which,  deny  it  as  she  would,  she  knew  might, 
at  any  moment,  be  her's. 

But  all  these,  and  a  thousand  other  innocent  fancies, 
were  put  to  flight  by  the  discovery  that  Roger  himself 
was  changed.  He  was  as  deferential  to  her  as  ever, 
but  graver  and  more  silent  than  she  had  seen  even  him 
before.  Every  word  seemed  to  cost  him  an  effort,  and 
to  look  at  her  was  almost  beyond  his  strength.  His 
face  was  white  and  haggard,  and  he  was  evidently  ill  at 
ease.  Once  or  twice,  when  the  door  opened  suddenly, 
he  started  and  turned  hastily  towards  it,  and  Alice 
fancied,  she  hardly  knew  why,  that  when  her  father 
spoke,  it  brought  a  deeper  shade  over  Roger  Sparowe's 
worn  face. 

These  signs  of  discomfiture  were  not  lost  upon 
Master  Burroughs.  He  noted  everything,  Roger's 
restless  anxiety,  and  Mistress  Margaret's  fluttered  and 
uneasy  spirits.  These  two  people,  he  said  to  himself, 
had  some  guilty  secret  on  their  conscience.  He  had 
done  well  to  come,  and  to  bring  Alice  with  him ;  with 
her  innocent  help  he  hoped  to  discover  the  mystery 
before  he  left. 


166  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  What  news  may  you  have,  Mistress  Sparowe,  of 
your  younger  son  ?  "  he  asked,  during  a  pause  in  the 
meal,  when  he  fancied  Roger's  attention  was  wholly 
occupied  with  Alice.  "  Hath  an  old  friend  leave  to  ask 
after  him  ?  " 

"  Surely,  sir,  I  am  but  too  pleased  that  you  remember 
him,"  answered  Mistress  Margaret,  the  colour  rushing 
into  her  fair  face.  "  We  have  certain  and  joyful 
intelligence  that  my  son  Walter  is  safely  come  out  of 
the  battle,  without  hurt  to  life  or  limb." 

"  Ah,  he  hath  escaped.  Not  many  Malignants,  I  trow, 
have  fared  as  well,  for  the  Lord  delivered  them  into  our 
hands,  and  the  slaughter  was  great.  And  whither  hath 
he  gone,  madam  ?  " 

Dame  Margaret  winced,  and  cast  an  appealing  glance 
at  Roger,  who  had  stopped  his  conversation  with  Alice, 
and  was  listening  anxiously.  "He  is,  we  trust,  in 
safety,"  she  answered,  cautiously. 

"  In  safety  !  It  were  no  easy  matter  to  have  him  in 
safety.  Trust  him  not  to  the  care  of  any  chance  keeper," 
said  Master  Burroughs,  with  an  air  of  benign  interest. 
"  For  I  dare  assure  you,  that  the  price  set  on  the  heads 
of  these  Malignants  is  high  enough  to  tempt  any  poor 
man  to  betray  them.  Too  high,  methinks,  even  for  the 
purpose  of  securing  them,  for  money  is  scarce  with  us. 
And  it  is  death  to  harbour  them." 

Mistress  Margaret  uttered  a  little  scream,  but  before 
she  could  answer,  Roger  interposed  from  the  other  end 
of  the  table. 

"  Master  Burroughs,"  he  said,  "  try  not  my  mother,  I 
pray  you,  with  further  questions.  That  which  you  seek 
to  know  I  will  myself  tell  you.  My  brother  is  under  the 
shelter  of  this  roof,  and  here  he  will  remain  until  we  are 
able  to  bestowe  him  elsewhere  with  safety." 

Alice  could  not  repress  a  start  of  astonishment,  but 
Master  Burroughs  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  It  is  well,  my  son,"  he  answered  suavely.  "  '  Let 
brotherly  love  continue,'  saith  the  Scripture.  I  rejoice 
that  you  act  so  Christian  a  part  towards  him,  even 
though  it  be  at  the  risk  of  your  own  life.  Suffer  me 


THE    FACE    AT   THE    WINDOW.  167 

only  to  put  you  in  remembrance  of  a  certain  word  that 
fell  from  you  on  your  last  visit  to  me.  You  were  pleased 
them  to  delare  that  Master  Walter  had  left  this  house 
for  ever,  and  that  you  and  he  thought  never  to  meet 
again." 

"  You  speak  truly,  sir,"  replied  Roger.  "  I  knew  not 
when  I  spoke  that  he  was  here.  Nevertheless  I  have 
not  departed  from  that  which  I  said.  As  brothers, 
Walter  and  I  meet  no  more,  but  as  a  fugitive  he  claimeth 
from  me  pity  and  compassion,  like  any  other.  Dare  I, 
who  profess  to  exercise  Christian  charity  towards  all 
men,  turn  mine  own  brother  from  our  father's  house 
when  he  is  in  need  ?  " 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Alice's  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  and  even  Master  Burroughs  seemed  somewhat 
awed.  At  last  Mistress  Margaret  asked  anxiously  :  "  Is 
there  danger,  think  you,  good  Master  Burroughs,  in 
giving  shelter  to  those  who  have  escaped  ?  Surely,  if 
any  inquisition  is  made,  none  can  blame  us  for  a  deed 
of  mercy." 

"  Danger,  yes  madam,"  returned  the  Puritan,  recover- 
ing himself.  "  Our  friend  here  hath  spoken  so  worthily, 
thac  I  will  not  gainsay  him,  whether  it  be,  or  be  not 
his  duty  to  shelter  his  brother.  If  it  please  you  to 
take  the  risk,  I  know  not  who  should  inform  against 
you.  But  if  so  be  that  there  were  other  Malignants 
here  in  hiding,"  he  fixed  his  keen  eyes  on  Mistress 
Margaret's  terrified  face,  "  and  a  man  came  to  know  of 
it,  it  would  go  hardly  with  them,  look  you.  To  my  poor 
thinking,  he  were  bound  in  honour  to  declare  it." 

Mistress  Margaret  vainly  tried  to  stifle  a  little  cry  of 
horror,  and  Roger  said,  sternly,  with  a  strong  effort : 
"  I  pray  you,  sir,  to  leave  my  mother  in  peace.  She 
hath  had  much  to  try  her,  my  brother's  absence,  and 
the  long  uncertainty  concerning  him,  and  the  pressing 
risk  to  his  person.  It  were  cruel  to  affright  her  further 
with  dark  hints,  which  savour  of  threats.  My  duty 
lieth  plainly  before  me,  to  comfort  her,  and  give  shelter 
to  my  brother.  What  say  you,  Mistress  Alice  ? "  he 
continued,  forcing  himself  to  speak  in  a  cheerful  tone. 


168  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Since  dinner  is  ended,  shall  we  go  into  the  garden  ? 
Tis  cooler  than  the  house  to-day." 

And  rising,  Roger  bowed  to  his  guest  with  a  stately 
composure  at  which  he  was  himself  surprised,  and 
taking  her  hand  he  led  her  into  the  wainscotted  room, 
and  through  its  open  windows  on  to  the  lawn,  while 
Master  Burroughs  followed  ceremoniously  with  Mistress 
Sparowe. 

Alice  was  not  sorry  to  escape  from  the  house.  She 
felt  as  if  the  air  indoors  would  stifle  her.  It  was  like 
the  sulphurous  atmosphere  before  a  thunderstorm. 
There  was  a  strange  tension,  which  she  could  not  under- 
stand, in  every  word  spoken  at  the  table.  Her  father 
seemed  in  some  incomprehensible  way  to  be  playing 
with  edged  tools,  and  evidently  possessed  a  secret  power 
over  Mistress  Margaret,  which  Alice  was  sorry  to  see 
him  exercise.  While,  as  for  Roger,  she  could  tell  as 
she  walked  beside  him,  by  the  very  difficulty  he  found 
in  moderating  his  step  to  her's,  that  his  rigid  control 
over  himself  was  strained  to  the  utmost.  Everyone 
was  more  irritated  and  angry  than  was  usual  in  polite 
society,  and  Alice  felt  a  yearning  to  soothe  and  comfort 
them,  did  she  but  know  how  to  begin. 

"  'Tis  a  pretty  garden  this,  and  none  too  small  for  a 
town,"  she  said,  after  they  had  taken  a  few  turns  up 
and  down  in  silence.  "  I  knew  not  that  so  fair  a  piece 
of  ground  lay  behind  the  house.  But  the  flowers,  poor 
things  !  "  Alice  looked  round  with  a  compassionate 
smile.  "  Pardon  me,  Master  Sparowe,  but  doth  anyone 
tend  them  ?  " 

"  Doubtless  someone  hath  charge  of  them,"  answered 
Roger.  "  My  mother  hath  not  so  great  love  of  flowers 
as  you,  Mistress  Alice.  So  she  can  have  some,  now 
and  again,  to  adorn  her  dress,  or  a  bunch  of  marigolds 
to  make  the  broth  savoury,  or  thyme  and  lavender  to 
sweeten  the  linen,  she  is  content.  She  hath  not  the 
time,  she  saith,  for  such  tender  care  of  them  as  you 
bestow.  Methinks,  too,  that  our  town  air  is  ill-suited 
to  flowers." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  answered  Alice,  thoughfully.     "  But  to 


THE    FACE    AT   THE    WINDOW.  169 

have  no  time  for  flowers — one  had  as  lief  have  no  time 
for  children.  Your  lady  mother  must  be  strangely  busy." 

"  She  is  ever  hurried,"  answered  Roger,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  I  say  not  she  is  always  busy." 

"  Yet  be  it  in  town  or  country,"  continued  Alice,  as 
she  raised  the  drooping  head  of  a  rose,  "  flowers  will 
surely  thrive,  if  they  be  loved.  Look  you  now,"  she 
shook  out  the  cup  of  the  rose,  which  was  full  of  water, 
"  this  poor  flower  hath  had  too  much  of  the  bountiful 
rain  of  yesternight,  and  is  like  to  be  drowned  in  it. 
Now  it  is  not  overburdened,  it  will  revive  in  the 
sunshine." 

Roger  watched  her  deft  fingers.  "  Is  there  anything, 
Mistress  Alice,  that  you  do  not  love  and  tend  ?  The 
other  day  'twas  the  poor  sick-folk,  to-day  it  is  the 
flowers.  An  you  were  my  sister,  I  should  be  jealous  of 
them." 

"  Nay,  they  need  me,"  answered  Alice,  simply. 
"  Kezia  loveth  them  not,  and  oftentimes  she  saith  that 
my  care  of  them  is  sinful.  But  I  cannot  forbear  it. 
The  Lord  hath  not  made  them  so  fair  that  we  should 
neglect  them.  And  when  I  see  them  droop  I  am  pained 
at  heart.  Doth  a  thing  want  me,  straightway  I  am 
impelled  to  care  for  it." 

"  And  if  a  man  need  thee  sorely,  sweet  Mistress 
Alice,  and  were  in  dire  want  of  care  and  comfort, 
wouldest  thou  feel  the  like  ?  " 

Alice  blushed  crimson.  "  I  know  not,  Master 
Sparowe,"  she  answered,  hesitating.  "  I  have  not 
thought  of  it.  Only  the  flowers  and  the  sick-folk 
have  needed  me  hitherto,  and  my  father  at  times. 
Perchance,  if  it  were  so  "  .... 

And  Alice  in  her  embarrasment  looked  at  the  garden, 
and  up  at  the  house,  and  anywhere  away  from  the  eyes 
which  were  watching  every  breath  she  drew.  Half 
consciously  she  gazed  at  the  picturesque  irregularity  of 
outline,  and  traced  the  many  gables  and  richly-carved 
wood  work  of  the  building.  Suddenly  she  started 
violently,  and  Roger,  no  less  agitated,  looked  up.  To 
his  horror  he  perceived  that  Alice's  eyes  were  fixed 


170  A   KINO'S    RANSOM. 

upon  the  chapel  gable,  which  was  just  visible  beyond 
the  nearer  projection  of  the  alcove  room.  From  this 
particular  spot  in  the  garden,  and  from  nowhere  else, 
the  little  window  of  the  chapel  was  visible  ;  and  at  this 
moment  a  face  was  seen  at  that  window,  which  Alice 
knew  did  not  belong  to  any  member  of  the  Sparowe 
family.  A  young  man,  with  swarthy  skin,  dark,  closely- 
cropped  hair,  and  brilliant  black  eyes,  was  looking  out 
over  the  garden,  and  at  the  view  of  the  town  beyond. 
It  was  not  one  of  the  serving  men,  Alice  saw  at  a  glance. 
The  thin,  cynical  lips,  and  graceful  poise  of  the  head, 
marked  the  owner  of  the  face  at  once  as  a  gentleman. 

Frightened  at  the  unexpected  apparition,  she  looked 
round  at  Roger,  and  saw  an  expression  of  mingled 
terror  and  anger  on  his  white  face.  It  darkened  as  she 
had  never  seen  it  darken  before.  He  stared  up  at  the 
window  fiercely,  almost  defiantly ;  then  recollecting 
himself  with  a  shudder,  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder, 
and  drew  a  deep  breath  when  he  saw  that  Master 
Burroughs  and  his  mother  were  engaged  in  earnest 
conversation  at  the  further  end  of  the  garden. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment,  and  when  Alice  again 
ventured  to  look  up,  the  face  at  the  window  had 
vanished  like  a  dream.  "Master  Sparowe,  what  is  it  ?" 
she  asked,  in  an  awe-struck  whisper.  "  Who  is  that 
man,  and  what  doth  he  there  ?  " 

"Ask  me  not,  Mistress  Alice,"  he  answered  in  a 
trembling  voice.  "  Ask  me  concerning  nought  that 
you  see  or  hear.  None  of  it  is  fit  for  your  knowledge. 
I  have  done  grevious  wrong.  A  snare  hath  been  laid 
for  my  feet,  and  I  am  fallen  into  it."  His  voice  sank 
to  a  whisper,  but  Alice  caught  his  words. 

"  You  are  over  strict  with  your  own  conscience,  sir," 
she  said,  gently.  "  I  were  loath  to  believe  that  you  had 
done  wrong.  What !  may  not  a  friend  of  yours,  whose 
face  is  unknown  to  me,  look  forth  from  a  window,  but 
you  must  straightway  accuse  yourself  of  sin  ?  But  'tis 
passing  strange,"  she  went  on,  turning  towards  the 
building,  and  examining  it  more  closely,  "  that  I  had  not 
seen  that  gable  before,  nor  the  window,  and  yet  we  have 


THE    FACE   AT   THE   WINDOW.  171 

walked  here  for  full  half-an-hour.  I  have  heard  tell  that 
the  house  is  an  old  place,  and  full  of  secrets." 

Alice  did  not  see  the  look  of  agony  on  Roger's  face, 
and  she  went  on  innocently  :  "  Over  what  room  doth 
that  gable  lie  ?  A  lofty  room  it  must  be,  or  else  high  in 
the  roof.  I  would  fain  see  it.  Perchance  we  might 
light  on  some  dark  corner,  where  a  man  might  lie 
hidden  "  .  .  .  .  She  stopped  abruptly,  as  Roger  seized 
her  hand. 

"  This  way,  Mistress  Alice,"  he  said,  hurrying  her  down 
the  path.  "  Come  this  way,  I  pray  you.  And,  as  you 
have  any  regard  for  me,  and  desire  not  to  compass  my 
destruction,  speak  no  more  of  that  window,  nor  of  the 
gable,  nor  of  aught  that  you  have  seen." 

Alice  was  puzzled  and  grieved  at  the  effect  of  her 
words. 

"  Surely,  since  you  desire  it,  I  will  be  silent,"  she  said. 
"  But  what  doth  it  mean,  Master  Sparowe  ?  and  why  is 
my  father  so  strange  to-day,  and  seemeth  to  seek  a 
quarrel,  though  his  words  are  smooth  ?  " 

"  Mistress  Alice,"  said  Roger,  taking  her  hand,  and 
looking  earnestly  into  her  frightened  face,  "I  would  give 
the  half  of  my  possessions,  an  I  dared  tell  you  what  it 
means.  But  I  cannot  speak.  The  lives  of  others  are  in 
my  hand." 

"Your  brother  ?  "  questioned  Alice.  "  Nay,  we  rejoice, 
my  father  and  I,  that  you  have  him  here  with  you  in 
safety,  after  your  great  anxiety  concerning  him.  You 
cannot  lay  blame  to  yourself  that  you  give  him  shelter, 
even  though  you  risk,  may  be,  a  fine  by  concealing  him." 

"  I  shrink  not  from  any  risk,"  answered  Roger,  steadily. 
"  Nevertheless,  sweet  lady,  pray  for  me,  pity  me,  and — 
trust  me.  To-morrow  I  am  a  free  man.  To-morrow 
you  shall  know  all." 

Roger  bent  over  Alice's  little  hand,  and  a  hot  tear  fell 
upon  it  as  he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Good  Master  Sparowe,"  said  Alice,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  "  my  speech  paineth  you,  I  know  not  wherefore. 
I  pray  you  to  believe  that  I  would  not  hurt  you  by  so 
much  as  a  word.  To  trust  you  is  a  simple  matter,  for  I 


172  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

have  always  trusted  you.  Only  I  grieve  to  see  you  in 
such  trouble,  and  not  to  bring  you  any  comfort." 

"  You  do  comfort  me,"  said  Roger,  his  voice  breaking 
at  last.  "  So  Mistress  Alice  will  trust  me,  and  mine 
own  conscience  acquit  me,  I  care  not  if  the  whole  world 
rise  up  against  me." 

Roger's  eyes  were  more  eloquent  than  his  words.  It 
was  not  inhuman  nature  wholly  to  mistake  their  meaning. 
Distracted  by  doubt  as  to  the  nature  of  the  crime  he 
appeared  to  impute  to  himself,  perplexed  by  the  mystery 
which  confronted  her  at  every  step,  Alice  was  never- 
theless strangely  joyful.  Something,  she  scarcely  knew 
what,  had  happened  to  her.  Roger  Sparowe  had  come, 
evidently,  to  some  crisis  in  his  fate  when  he  wanted  help 
and  support,  and  it  was  to  her  he  turned.  Alice  was 
content. 

When  the  young  people  rejoined  their  elders,  Roger 
was  dismayed  to  see  that  Master  Burroughs'  face  wore 
an  expression  of  triumph.  The  young  man  had  fallen 
into  the  trap  laid  for  him.  He  had  suffered  himself  to 
be  wholly  absorbed  in  Alice's  society,  and  her  father, 
once  alone  with  Mistress  Margaret,  had,  without 
difficulty,  gradually  drawn  from  her  all  she  knew  about 
her  visitors.  For  forty-eight  hours  Dame  Margaret 
had  borne  the  weight  of  her  secret,  and  to  no  living  soul, 
save  Joan,  had  she  dared  to  breathe  a  word  of  it.  To 
gossip  with  her  neighbours  was  indeed  an  impossibility, 
since  Roger,  as  soon  as  he  knew  to  whom  he  had  given 
shelter,  mounted  guard  over  his  mother,  and  kept  her  an 
unconscious  prisoner  in  her  own  house. 

Now  at  last  she  had  an  opportunity  af  unburdening 
her  mind  ;  and  though  she  had  hitherto  rather  dreaded 
than  liked  Master  Burroughs,  she  found  him  to-day  so 
kind,  so  sympathetic,  so  interested  in  all  that  concerned 
her,  that  five  minutes'  conversation  was  sufficient  to 
unloose  her  tongue.  She  soon  began  to  reproach  berself 
for  her  former  uncharitable  thoughts  of  him.  In  a  short 
time  the  wily  old  Puritan  knew  all  about  Walter, 
Wentworth,  and  as  much  of  the  young  serving  man  as 
the  lady  could  tell  him.  True,  she  had  not  much  to  say 


THE    FACE    AT   THE    WINDOW.  173 

about  this  last  guest,  for  Will  Somers  had  been  kept  as 
far  as  possible  out  of  her  sight.  But  the  moment  she 
made  mention  of  him,  Master  Burroughs  began  to 
suspect  that  Ralph  Wentworth  was  not  the  only  fugitive 
of  rank  to  whom  Roger  was  giving  shelter.  In  vain 
Mistress  Margaret  assured  him  that  the  groom  was  a 
little  insignificant  fellow,  the  most  stupid  lad  she  had 
ever  seen,  and  that,  though  she  had  spoken  kindly  to 
him  when  she  met  him  once  or  twice  about  the  house, 
he  had  never  seemed  able  to  answer  her  civil  questions. 
Master  Burroughs  listened  to  her  in  silence,  seeing  that 
to  press  her  would  only  rouse  suspicion.  None  the  less 
did  he  feel  assured  that  he  held  now  the  clue  to  the 
mystery. 

Having  already  learnt  far  more  that  he  had  ventured 
to  expect,  he  had  just  begun  to  think  of  finding  his 
daughter,  and  taking  leave,  when  Roger  and  Alice 
appeared.  Master  Burroughs'  exultation  for  once 
exceeded  the  bounds  of  prudence. 

"  I'  faith,  you  lead  a  gay  life  here,  Master  Roger,  for  all 
your  professions  of  godliness,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Guests, 
forsooth,  and,  as  I  understand,  persons  of  quality  in 
disguise  !  You  hide  your  birds  rarely  well,  good  sir,  and 
put  a  fair  face  on  it  to  the  world.  Some  day  it  may 
chance  that  I  shall  take  an  opportunity  of  seeing  them, 
and  exploring  the  secrets  of  this  fine  old  place  of  yours." 

Roger's  fortitude  had  been  severely  tested  of  late, 
and  features  and  voice  were  under  perfect  control  as  he 
answered  quietly  :  "  Some  day,  sir,  I  shall  be  proud  to 
show  you  mine  house  ;  for  the  present  I  pray  you  to 
excuse  me.  I  have,  as  you  say,  guests  with  me,  whose 
convenience  I  must  consider." 

"  Fine  guests,  I  trow,  who  will  not,  or  dare  not,  eat 
at  your  own  table  with  your  friends.  I  take  your  offer 
gladly,  sir,  and  shall  speedily  put  you  in  mind  thereof." 

"  Roger,  I  have  said  nothing,"  whispered  Mistress 
Margaret,  terrified  at  the  old  Puritan's  ambiguous  words. 
"  If  thou  hadst  persons  of  quality  here,  my  son,  thou 
shouldest  have  told  me.  I  knew  nought  thereof." 

11  Ah,    mother,    thy    tongue    hath    undone    us    all," 


174  A  KINO'S  RANSOM. 

murmured  Roger,  sadly.  Then  turning  to  Master 
Burroughs,  as  they  walked  towards  the  door,  he  said : 
"  I  pray  you,  worthy  sir,  misjudge  me  not.  Guilty  in 
this  matter  I  am  not,  though  guilty  I  may  seem  to  be. 
What  blame  you  see  fit  to  lay  on  me,  I  will  meekly  bear. 
If  you  think  to  bring  ruin  upon  me,  the  Lord  judge 
betwixt  us.  Mistress  Alice  will  trust  me." 

Master  Burroughs  had  controlled  himself  hitherto, 
with  almost  as  painful  an  effort  as  Roger,  but  his  anger 
burst  out  at  last  over  the  apparently  trivial  business  of 
mounting  his  horse. 

"Women  be  all  fools  alike,"  he  exclaimed  testily,  "as 
unreasonable  as  this  horse  here.  Sirrah,  wilt  stand 
still  ?  Hold  his  head,  thou  varlet,  or  I  will  break  thine 
for  thee.  Now,  girl,  art  thou  ready  ?  Hark  you,  Master 
Roger,  a  wise  man  trusts  not  a  woman.  And  when  he 
acts  a  double  part,  he  maketh  sure  that  he  hath  an 
audience  which  may  be  easily  gulled." 

And  with  this  parting  thrust  Master  Burroughs, 
having  conquered  his  horse,  and  seen  Alice  bestowed 
safely  behind  him,  set  off  at  a  heavy  trot,  and  Roger,  as 
his  guests  disappeared  down  the  street,  heaved  a  sigh  of 
intense  relief. 


175 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A    NIGHT   WATCH. 


BUT  the  respite  was  short.  Roger  knew  that  not  a 
moment  was  to  be  lost.  His  dangerous  visitors  must 
go  at  once.  A  few  hours  more,  and  Master  Burroughs 
might  examine  the  house  from  garret  to  cellar,  without 
let  or  hindrance  from  any  of  the  inmates,  but  what 
was  there  not  to  do  in  those  few  hours?  Instead  of 
returning  to  Mote  End,  the  old  Puritan  might  make 
direct  for  the  sheriffs  office,  and  come  back  with  a 
warrant  for  searching  the  house,  and  a  whole  posse  of 
men  at  his  heels  to  carry  it  into  execution.  Whether 
he  would  do  so  or  not  depended  on  the  information  he 
had  been  able  to  obtain  from  the  lady  of  the  house. 

Roger  brought  Mistress  Margaret  into  the  wainscotted 
room,  where  they  were  least  likely  to  be  disturbed,  and 
began  to  question  her  closely.  But  he  could  find  out 
little  from  her.  Dearly  as  he  loved  his  mother,  he  was 
always  clumsy  in  dealing  with  her,  and  he  made  matters 
worse  now  by  frightening  her.  Earnestly  she  declared 
that  she  had  said  no  more  than  good  breeding  required. 

"  I  have  done  no  wrong,  Roger,  that  thou  shouldest 
be  so  stern  with  me,"  she  protested,  plaintively.  "When 
a  man  maketh  courteous  inquiry  of  you  touching  your 
family,  and  a  man,  to  boot,  who  hath  never  shown  over 
much  civility  to  you  before,  how  can  one  choose  but 
answer?  Wouldest  have  me,  thou  with  thy  strict 
Puritan  ways,  give  him  the  lie,  and  say  that  I  knew  not 
where  Walter  was  ?  Or  art  thou  peradventure  ashamed 
of  thy  brother  ?  " 

"  Nay,  mother,  nay,"  returned  Roger.  "  Thou  knowest 
I  would  deal  honestly  with  all  men.  Only,  at  this 
dangerous  time,  I  would  have  some  slight  reserve  in  our 


176  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

talk.  As  touching  Master  Burroughs,  I  doubt  not  that 
he  knew  before  he  came  hither  that  Walter  was  in  the 
house." 

Mistress  Margaret  raised  her  hands  in  horror. 
"  Roger,  how  canst  thou  say  such  things  ?  How  should 
he  know,  and  yet  ask  where  he  was  ?  " 

"He  must  answer  that  to  his  own  conscience,  mother. 
From  his  looks  I  can  certainly  affirm  that  he  knew." 

"  If  he  knew,"  pursued  Mistress  Margaret,  "  there 
needed  not  to  ply  me  with  questions.  Nay,  Roger,  he 
came  as  a  friend,  to  ask  how  thy  brother  did,  and 
discovered  to  me  a  true  liking*  for  the  poor  lad,  which  I 
had  never  seen  in  him  before.  But  thou — thou  wilt 
never  show  thyself  friendly  to  Walter.  E'en  now,  when 
he  is  in  danger  of  his  life,  as  Master  Burroughs  saith, 
thou  wilt  not  so  much  as  speak  to  him.  Fie,  my  son  1 
Must  the  mother  that  bare  you  both  plead  with  thee  to 
love  him  ?  " 

"  Methinks,  mother,  I  prove  my  love  to  him  by  risking 
my  life  on  his  behalf.  But  no  more  of  that.  Since 
Master  Burroughs  plied  thee  with  questions,  prithee 
tell  me  what  more  didst  thou  say  ?  Didst  disclose  any- 
thing further  ?  " 

"  Ah,  now  thy  brows  are  knit,  and  thou  art  stern  and 
hard  again,"  cried  Mistress  Margaret,  bursting  into 
tears.  '"Tis  thy  father's  look,  when  he  went  about  to 
blame  anyone.  Only  not  me — he  never  chid  me.  But 
thou  art  bold  to  take  me  to  task,  Roger.  Hast  thou  no 
reverence  for  thy  mother  ?  Whatever  she  doth  should 
be  right  in  thine  eyes." 

"  Dear  mother,  I  chide  thee  not,"  said  Roger,  half 
beside  himself  with  anxiety.  "  I  would  only  know  of 
thee  what  thou  hast  said  to  Master  Burroughs,  that,  if 
thou  hast  revealed  aught  he  should  not  know,  we  may 
beware  of  danger." 

"  Danger  1  thou  art  always  prating  of  danger,  thou 
and  the  Puritan  too,  forsooth.  Prithee,  what  danger 
is  there  ?  Can  any  blame  us  if  we  shelter  thine  own 
brother  and  thy  dearest  friend  ?  Could  we  turn  them 
away,  when  they  prayed  us  to  help  them  ?  " 


A    NIGHT   WATCH.  177 

"  Didst  tell  him,"  asked  Roger,  quickly,  "that  Ralph 
Wentworth  was  here  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  told  him,"  answered  Mistress  Sparowe.  "  That 
news  assuredly  he  knew  not  before,  for  he  seemed 
greatly  amazed  when  he  heard  it.  He  was  silent  there- 
after for  a  while.  But  that  which  touched  him  most 
nearly  was  when  I  made  mention  of  that  foolish  young 
serving  lad  Ralph  had  brought  with  him.  He  asked 
many  questions  concerning  him,  why  I  know  not,  and 
hinted  that  he  was  a  Cavalier  in  disguise.  I  told  him 
no,  forthwith.  As  if  one  of  us  would  disfigure  himself 
after  that  fashion,  and  crop  his  hair  like  a  fanatic !  " 

The  result  of  Roger's  conversation  with  his  mother 
was  a  request,  instantly  dispatched  through  Joan,  that 
Ralph  Wentworth  would  come  down  and  speak  with 
him.  The  Cavalier  promptly  went  to  Roger  in  the 
wainscotted  room.  He  was  thankful  to  escape  from  the 
dreary  loft,  where  he  and  his  companions  had  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  day,  pacing  restlessly  to  and  fro. 
Roger  frankly  told  him  every  circumstance  of  the  visit 
he  had  just  received,  not  omitting  the  luckless  appear- 
ance of  one  of  the  refugees  at  the  chapel  window. 
Wentworth  admitted  that  it  was  an  imprudent  act. 

"  The  King  is  heedless,"  he  said,  "  many  a  time  have 
I  prayed  his  Majesty  to  suffer  Walter  or  me  to  keep 
watch  at  that  window.  But  he  groweth  restless  at  the 
long  confinement,  and  would  fain  see  for  himself  if 
help  is  at  hand.  In  sooth  I  wonder  not  at  it.  We  are 
all  weary  of  our  idle  life." 

"  None  can  more  earnestly  desire  to  see  it  ended 
than  myself,"  said  Roger,  with  a  sigh. 

Wentworth  looked  at  him  sadly.  "  Ay,  I  do  ill  to 
complain,  when  thou  bearest  it  so  bravely.  Thou  hast 
as  much  as  any  of  us  to  lose  by  delay ;  alas,  that  we 
have  brought  thee  to  it !  But  concerning  the  King's 
face  at  the  window.  Was  he  recognized,  think  you  ?  " 

"  He  was  not,"  answered  Roger.  "  That  I  can  most 
truly  affirm.  Trouble  not  thyself  on  that  score,  Ralph. 
I  spake  of  it  only  to  make  thee  more  heedful  in  time  to 
come." 


178  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Ay,  but  women  will  prate,"  returned  Wentworth, 
uneasily.  "  What  if  the  lady  speak  thereof  to  her  father  ? 
He  might  know  his  Majesty  from  her  description  only. 
Canst  thou  answer  for  her  ?  " 

"  With  mine  own  life,"  replied  Roger,  shortly.  "  Now 
to  advise  with  thee  about  this  ship — for  in  flight  lies 
your  only  safety.  Ye  must  depart  forthwith ;  I  can 
shield  you  no  longer." 

"  All  is  planned  for  to-night,"  answered  Wentworth, 
"  and  the  tide  will  not  suffer  us  to  go  sooner.  The  hour 
is  late,  and  before  to-morrow  even  Master  Burroughs 
will  scarce  do  anything  against  us.  Doth  not  his  home 
lie  full  six  miles  from  here  ?  " 

"  Ay,  if  he  return  straightway,  and  goeth  not  first  to 
lodge  an  information  against  us  at  the  Borough  Court." 

"And  even  then,"  argued  Wentworth,  "they  will 
scarce  search  the  house  to-night  upon  such  scant  know- 
ledge as  they  have.  They  will  come  to-morrow,  as  soon 
as  they  can  bring  the  men  together.  We  have  twelve 
hours  yet." 

"  Then  before  the  morning  thou  must  be  gone,  thou 
and  thy  company.  Dost  mark  me,  Ralph  ?  'Tis  the 
first  time,  surely,  that  Sparowe  telleth  Wentworth  to 
be  gone." 

"  Tis  not  the  first  time  that  Sparowe  shieldeth  Went- 
worth with  his  own  life,"  answered  the  other.  "  Thou 
hast  nought  to  reproach  thyself  with,  Roger.  Never, 
surely,  had  Wentworth  a  friend  like  to  this  Sparowe. 
Never  Wentworth  or  any  other  man  had  so  heavy  a 
debt  of  gratitude  to  pay." 

"  Enough  of  such  talk,"  returned  Roger,  almost  im- 
patiently, "  Now  tell  me  concerning  the  ship,  for  I  am 
forced  to  ask,  though  most  unwillingly.  How  and  when 
think  ye  to  escape  ?  " 

Wentworth  proceeded  to  explain  the  arrangements 
which  had  been  made  for  the  flight.  The  ship  was  to 
come  up  the  river  as  far  as  possible,  with  the  high  tide 
at  midnight,  and  to  dispatch  a  small  boat  to  take  the 
passengers  off.  The  boat  was  to  wait  for  them  under 
the  shadow  of  Stoke  Bridge,  where  there  was  a  small 


A    NIGHT   WATCH.  179 

landing  stage ;  the  signal,  a  white  light  run  up  twice  to 
the  mast  head  of  the  vessel,  on  seeing  which  the  travellers 
were  immediately  to  leave  the  house,  and  make  for  the 
river.  Wind  and  tide  permitting,  they  hoped  within  an 
hour  to  be  on  board,  and  in  thirty-six  hours,  at  latest, 
the  skipper  had  undertaken  to  land  them  in  Holland. 

"  Prithee,  Ralph,"  said  Roger,  after  Wentworth  had 
detailed  the  scheme,  "  whence  hast  thou  this  news  ? 
How  hath  it  been  contrived,  seeing  ye  have  not  left  the 
house  since  ye  came  ?  " 

"  There  needs  not  for  any  of  us  to  leave  the  house," 
said  Wentworth,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"  Who  is  it,  then,  in  this  godly  town  of  Ipswich," 
asked  Roger,  "  who  bringeth  you  intelligence  ?  " 

"  Those  of  whom  thou  wouldest  scarce  like  to  hear," 
said  Wentworth,  with  a  strange  look.  "  Ask  me  not, 
unless  thou  wouldest  have  thy  mind  disturbed  afresh." 

"  Nay,  but  I  desire  to  know,"  urged  Roger.  "  There 
needs  no  further  secrecy  or  concealment  between  us. 
Thou  goest  hence  now,  and  it  may  be  I  shall  not  see 
thee  for  years.  Methinks,  ere  thou  depart,  I  have  a 
right  to  know." 

Wentworth  shook  his  head.  "  If  thou  doth  force  me 
to  tell  thee,  thou  wilt  regret  it.  Seek  not  to  know, 
Roger.  Others  are  concerned  besides  myself." 

"  Walter  !  "  exclaimed  Roger,  starting.  "  Nay,  now 
thou  shalt  speak,  Ralph.  What  hath  my  unhappy 
brother  done  ?  What  further  plottings  hath  he  engaged 
in?" 

"  None  which  thou  dost  not  already  know  of  or 
suspect.  Since  I  am  compelled  to  speak,  'tis  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Sturges  who  hath  been  our  chief  pur- 
veyor of  news.  Thou  knowest  him  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Sturges !  "  said  Roger,  thunderstruck.  "  Ay,  I 
know  him.  Fool  that  I  was  not  to  have  thought  of  him 
before !  Such  an  office  befits  him  better  than  his  post 
among  these  misguided  people." 

"Walter  hath  of  necessity  told  me  of  the  strange 
chance  whereby  ye  both  lighted  upon  him,"  said  Went- 
worth, "  else  had  I  not  spoken." 


180  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  And  hath  he  in  truth  devised  and  carried  out  this 
well-conceived  plan  ?  "  asked  Roger. 

"He  and  others,  whose  very  names  I  know  not. 
Those  who  help  us  concern  me  little.  Enough  that  the 
safety  of  the  King  hath  been  entrusted  to  me.  So  I  do 
but  bring  him  out  of  these  dangers,  and  deliver  him  safe 
and  sound  to  my  Lord  Wilmot,  I  care  not  who  hath  a 
hand  in  it." 

"  But,"  persisted  Roger,  "  have  ye  no  go-between  ? 
Since  ye  came  hither,  I  know  of  my  certain  knowledge 
that  Master  Sturges  hath  been  from  home.  Some 
messenger  must  have  come  to  and  fro." 

Wentworth  hesitated.  "  Someone  hath  been  here  to 
bring  us  news,  but  I  care  not  to  speak  of  it.  'Twill  but 
raise  thine  anger.  All  is  now  planned ;  the  messenger 
will  not  come  again,  and  wherefore  shouldst  thou  seek 
to  know  ?  " 

"  Because  of  Walter,"  returned  Roger,  doggedly. 
"  What  hath  he  done  ?  What  hand  hath  he  had  in  the 
business  ?  " 

"  Briefly,  then,  it  is  the  woman  thou  wettest  of,  con- 
cerning whom  thou  and  Walter  have  quarrelled,  who 
cometh  hither  with  news  of  the  ship.  Nay,  bend  not 
thy  brows  so  fiercely  on  me.  Thou  wouldest  know,  and 
now  what  hast  thou  gained  thereby  ?  Only  that  which 
will  widen  the  breach  between  you." 

"  He  seeth  her  still  ? "  asked  Roger,  catching  his 
breath.  "  This  unholy  familiarity  between  them  is  not 
at  an  end  ?  " 

"  Nay,  of  that  I  know  nought,"  answered  Wentworth, 
shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  Methinks  we  have  all  of  us 
too  much  at  stake  to  spend  our  time  in  dallying  with  a 
woman.  But  Walter  is  of  age  to  see  to  his  own 
concerns." 

"  Ralph,  thou  mightest  help  me,"  said  Roger,  in  an 
imploring  tone.  "  Thou  mightest  make  him  see  that  'tis 
his  duty  to  marry  her." 

"  To  marry  her  I  The  Saints  forbid  !  "  exclaimed 
Wentworth,  with  a  laugh.  "  That  were  helping  neither 
him  nor  thee.  Roger,  thou  art  beside  thyself.  Wouldest 


A   NIGHT  WATCH.  181 

have  every  young  man  marry  the  first  woman  he  looks 
upon  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  him  act  rightly  towards  her.  Walter 
hath  done  this  woman  sore  wrong  "... 

"  Thy  Puritan  ways  are  inconceivable,"  interrupted 
Ralph.  "  As  for  me,  my  business  lieth  with  the  King, 
and  any  who  bring  news  which  may  help  to  convey  him 
hence,  are  welcome  to  me." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Walter  himself 
lounged  into  the  room.  Ever  since  he  had  shot  up 
suddenly  to  man's  stature,  this  easy,  careless  gait  had 
been  characteristic  of  him,  and  now  it  was  almost  the 
only  mark  left  of  the  blythe  young  fellow,  whose 
cheerful  presence  used  to  brighten  the  Old  House.  The 
strain  of  the  last  month  had  told  fearfully  upon  him. 
The  first  sight  of  war  and  bloodshed,  the  terrible  anxiety 
of  piloting  Charles  half  across  England,  the  physical 
fatigues  and  hardships  he  had  undergone,  and  the  dread 
of  discovery  and  death,  had  crushed  his  light-hearted 
boyish  nature.  He  was  old  and  haggard,  his  mouth  and 
forehead  were  lined  with  care,  and  his  large  dreamy 
eyes  had  a  fierce  look  in  them,  like  those  of  a  hunted 
animal. 

Nothing  showed  more  plainly  the  unnatural  tension 
of  the  last  few  days,  than  the  agitated  way  in  which 
Roger  and  Wentworth  sprang  to  their  feet  at  his 
entrance.  Wentworth  hurried  towards  him,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  No  news,  none ! "  he  explained,  shaking  himself 
free.  "  Nothing  hath  been  altered.  I  came  only  to 
have  a  few  moments  speech  of  thee,  Roger,  before  we 
part,  it  may  be  for  ever.  Nay,  Ralph,"  as  Wentworth 
moved  to  leave  the  room,  "  prithee,  stay.  Thou  hast 
weight  with  Roger.  Thou  mayest  perchance  be  of  use 
to  me  in  that  I  have  to  say." 

Wentworth  reluctantly  sat  down,  and  Roger  asked, 
coldly,  "  Thou  goest  also,  Walter  ?  Wherefore  hast 
thou  not  told  me  ?  " 

"  I  come  to  tell  thee  now,  Roger,  and  to  bid  thee 
farewell.  The  time  will  be  short  for  leaves-taking 


182  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

to-night.  The  King  will  have  it  so.  His  Majesty  in 
the  nobleness  of  his  heart,  hath  refused  to  leave  me 
behind." 

"  I  am  glad,"  replied  Roger,  in  the  same  cold  tone. 
"  I  could  not  shield  thee  longer.  Nay,  as  I  have  told 
Ralph,  my  power  to  help  you  all  is  gone.  Ye  cannot  be 
here  another  day  in  safety." 

"  Then,  brother,  ere  we  go,  bid  me  God  speed,"  said 
Walter,  suddenly  holding  out  his  hands.  "  Let  us  not 
part  in  anger.  It  is  hard  for  one  who  carries  his  life  in 
his  hands  to  be  burdened  with  a  brother's  hate." 

"  I  hate  thee  not,  Walter,  I  hate  thy  sin  only.  The 
Lord  grant  thee  the  grace  of  repentance.  Repair  thy 
sin,  and  I  pledge  thee  my  word  as  a  Christian,  all  shall 
be  between  us  as  heretofore." 

Walter  shook  his  head.  "  I  cannot  do  as  thou  biddest 
me,"  he  said,  sorrowfully.  "  I  cannot  repair  my  sin  in 
the  way  thou  wilt  have  it.  It  is  impossible.  Tell  him, 
Ralph.  Prithee,  show  him  that  mine  honour  as  a 
gentleman  forbids  it  me." 

11  Be  reasonable,  Roger,"  interposed  Wentworth. 
"  Thou  canst  see  for  thyself  that  Walter  must  not  marry 
this  buxom  damsel.  The  thing  suits  not  a  man  of  our 
quality.  Consider  the  honour  of  thine  ancient  house." 

"There  is  no  dishonour,  but  sin,"  answered  Roger, 
stubbornly.  "  I  marvel,  Walter,  that  thou  darest  to 
draw  Ralph  into  this  family  difference.  'Tis  a  matter 
betwixt  thee  and  me,  and  I  trow  it  may  be  settled 
without  recourse  had  to  others." 

"Ay,  if  thou  wilt  settle  it,"  answered  Walter.  "  But 
methought  Ralph,  who  hath  known  us  so  long,  would 
help  to  move  thee  to  peace.  Once  more,  I  ask,  Roger, 
wilt  thou  pardon  me,  and  receive  me  back  to  brotherly 
harmony  and  love,  without  forcing  me  to  do  that  which 
is  impossible  ?  " 

"  No,  by  my  soul's  salvation,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Roger, 
"  If  thou  canst  not  atone  for  thy  sin,  neither  can  I 
forgive  thee." 

"Any  other  atonement"  .  .  .  began  Walter. 

"  There  is  no  other.     Make  restitution  to  her  for  her 


A    NIGHT   WATCH.  183 

honour  which  thou  hast  taken  from  her,  or  thou  shalt 
never  see  my  face  again  ?  " 

"  Roger,  be  not  so  hard  with  thy  brother,"  pleaded 
Wentworth.  "  Thou  dost  wrong  to  drive  him  from  thee 
at  such  a  time.  Canst  not  forgive,  without  enacting  a 
price  for  thy  forgiveness  which  he  dares  not  pay? 
To-morrow  the  lad  will  be  in  exile,  it  may  be  for  years. 
Let  him  not  go  forth  with  thy  curse  upon  him." 

"  'Tis  not  my  curse,  but  the  Lord's,"  answered  Roger 
bitterly.  "  '  The  wages  of  sin  is  death.'  Let  him  turn 
unto  the  Lord,  and  repent  him,  and  my  forgiveness 
shall  not  be  lacking.  But  of  what  avail  to  speak  of 
repentance,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  Walter,  "  least  of 
all  when,  as  I  hear,  thou  hast  dared  to  affront  me  by 
bringing  this  woman  into  my  very  house  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  brought  her,"  faltered  Walter.  "  She 
cometh  as  a  messenger  in  the  service  of  the  King.  I 
have  had  no  speech  of  her.  The  business  hath  passed 
between  Ralph  and — and  Master  Sturges.  Chide  me 
not,"  he  entreated,  as  Roger's  brow  darkened  again  at 
the  mention  of  the  priest's  hated  name.  "  Roger,  we 
stand  both  of  us  in  peril  of  death.  Must  we  part 
unreconciled  ?  Can  no  prayer  of  mine  avail  to  move 
thee  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  dead  silence.  Walter  fixed 
his  eyes  eagerly  on  his  brother,  and  held  out  his  hand. 
Then  his  look  of  anxious  expectation  faded  slowly.  He 
shrank  back,  his  hand  fell,  and  turning  sadly  away  he 
went  out  of  the  room  so  softly  that  the  door  had  closed 
upon  him,  before  Wentworth  and  Roger  had  realised 
that  he  was  gone. 

Wentworth  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  Pray  God,  thou 
do  not  repent  of  thy  hardness,"  he  said,  "  and  that  the 
lad  be  not  driven  to  evil  courses  in  foreign  parts.  Thou 
art  a  strange  man,  Roger.  So  true  towards  me,  so 
gentle  and  forbearing  with  the  other  guest  whom  thou 
canst  not  love — and  towards  thy  brother  so  unyielding. 
Alas !  Would  to  God  that  we  were  quit  of  this  business, 
and  safe,  all  three  of  us,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water ! " 


184  A   KINO'S    RANSOM. 

Wentworth's  wish  found  an  echo  from  more  than  one 
heart  that  night.  It  was  deemed  prudent  not  to  tell 
Mistress  Margaret  of  the  plan  of  escape.  She  went  to 
bed  perfectly  satisfied  with  herself,  the  little  temporary 
vexation  at  the  trap  Master  Burroughs  had  laid  for  her 
quite  forgotten,  and  happily  unconscious  that,  if  all  went 
well,  the  fugitives,  and  Walter  among  them,  would  have 
left  the  house  before  the  next  morning.  Roger,  however, 
was  far  too  anxious  to  rest.  The  servants  were 
dismissed,  and  the  house  secured  as  usual.  It  had  been 
arranged  that,  as  soon  as  the  light  was  seen,  the 
travellers  were  to  slip  out  by  the  small  side  entrance  in 
the  rear  of  the  wainscotted  room ;  and  Roger,  not  daring 
to  leave  the  door  open,  carried  the  key  of  it  with  him, 
instead  of  laying  it  up  in  his  chamber  with  the  others. 

Hour  after  hour  he  paced  the  room,  the  door  open  to 
the  great  hall,  that  he  might  hear  the  cry  of  the  watch- 
man in  the  street.  Wentworth  stole  down  once,  when 
the  household  had  retired,  to  satisfy  himself  that  all  was 
well,  then  crept  upstairs  again  to  the  chapel,  where 
Charles  and  Walter  were  intently  watching  for  the 
signal  light,  and  Roger  was  once  more  alone. 

It  was  a  marvellously  beautiful  night,  so  warm  and 
balmy,  that  the  young  man  after  a  time  felt  the  house 
unbearably  hot,  opened  the  lattice  window,  and  stepped 
out  into  the  garden.  The  full  moon  shone  with  almost 
the  brilliance  of  day,  and  the  shadows  of  the  trees  fell 
across  the  path  like  black  bars  upon  a  sheet  of  silver. 
Now  and  again  a  bird  stirred  in  the  branches,  and  broke 
the  magic  stillness  of  the  autumn  night  with  a  dreamy 
chirp.  The  town  itself  was  hushed  into  absolute  silence, 
scarcely  interrupted  by  the  hoarse  cry  of  the  watchman 
announcing  the  hour,  and  exhorting  the  faithful  to  pray 
for  the  departing  soul. 

Peace  and  quietness  were  everywhere,  save  in  Roger's 
distracted  brain.  Neither  in  the  house  nor  in  the 
garden  could  he  rest.  He  tried  in  vain  to  think 
collectedly.  Alice,  her  father,  Walter,  the  danger,  the 
projected  escape,  all  the  confused  events  of  that  anxious 
day  grew  more  confused  in  the  retrospect.  He  had  no 


i  *  ••-•-.,.. 


A    NIGHT   WATCH.  185 

more  power  over  his  thoughts  than  if  he  were  asleep. 
His  brain  seemed  to  act  independently,  and  to  thrust  one 
ruling  idea  always  before  him,  his  harshness  to  Walter. 

Again  and  again  his  brother's  haggard  face  and  wistful 
eyes  rose  before  him,  and  again  and  again  he  tried  to 
feel  that  he  had  done  well  to  be  angry.  But  it  was  of 
no  avail.  Here  in  this  room — he  had  wandered  in  again 
from  the  garden — where  they  had  played  as  children, 
where  every  nook  and  corner  was  associated  with  some 
boyish  memory ;  here  in  the  solemn  silence  of  the  night, 
Roger  knew  at  last  that  he  had  been  hard  and  stern. 
He  had  condemned  the  sinner  as  well  as  the  sin. 
He  had  not  forgiven  as  he  hoped  to  be  forgiven.  But 
even  now  it  was  not  too  late.  Walter  was  still  here, 
and  it  would  go  hard  with  Roger  if  he  could  not  find 
some  moment,  even  in  the  hurry  of  parting,  to  take  him 
aside,  and  whisper  a  word  of  reconciliation. 

What  was  that  ?  Roger  was  startled  by  the  cry  of 
the  watchman :  "  Past  one  o'clock,  and  a  moonlight 
night !  "  A  whole  hour  then  had  passed  since  the  time 
fixed  for  the  start,  and  yet  he  heard  no  movement  from 
above.  He  stepped  again  into  the  garden,  and  looked 
up  at  the  chapel  gable.  There  was  no  light  in  it,  but  the 
moon  was  streaming  in  at  the  little  window,  and  in  the 
deep  shadow  it  cast  Roger  thought  he  distinguished  two 
heads,  and  a  pale  gleam  from  Walter's  bright  curls. 

Two  o'clock  came,  and  still  no  sound  but  the  watch- 
man's cry  broke  the  silence.  The  stillness  became 
irksome,  then  terribly  oppressive,  till  Roger  felt  as  if 
the  lightest  noise  would  be  a  relief.  At  last  he  stole  up 
to  the  loft,  more  to  quiet  his  strained  nerves  with  the 
comforting  sound  of  a  human  voice,  than  with  any  hope 
of  learning  the  cause  of  the  delay,  which  he  knew  the 
watchers  above  could  no  more  explain  than  he. 

The  little  chapel  was  flooded  with  the  moonbeams,  and 
all  the  arches  and  pillars  shone  out  in  the  ghostly  light. 
Wentworth  sprang  up  to  meet  him  the  moment  he  entered. 

"What  news  dost  thou  bring  us,  Roger?  What  hath 
caused  the  delay  ?  Speak,  man,  and  tell  us."  And  as 
he  asked,  he  laid  his  trembling  hand  on  Roger's  arm. 


186  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  Friend,  you  are  most  welcome,"  said  another  voice 
out  of  the  darkness,  and  Charles  rose,  and  came  forward 
from  an  arched  recess,  where  a  few  cloaks  had  been 
thrown  down  to  make  a  rough  bed  for  him.  "  I  pray 
you  tell  us  briefly,  if  you  can,  whether  anything  hath 
happened  to  the  boat." 

"Alas,  sir,  I  know  no  more  than  you,"  answered 
Roger.  "  I  have  heard  nothing.  I  came  hither  only  to 
have  speech  of  some  fellow-creature,  hoping  perchance 
you  yourselves  might  know  if  there  were  any  change  of 
plan.  Down  there  it  is  as  lonely  as  the  grave,  and  1 
tremble  at  mine  own  shadow." 

"  And  up  here  we  sit  and  sigh  like  owls  in  the  night," 
returned  Charles.  "  Indeed,  sir,  an  you  be  dismal,  you 
come  not  to  over  cheerful  company.  Faith,  I  had  as 
lief  be  in  Scotland,  as  in  this  gruesome  place." 

"  Beseech  your  Majesty  to  be  patient,"  answered 
Wentworth,  earnestly.  "  The  signal  cannot  fail  to  be 
seen  presently.  I  was  assured  that  the  plan  could  not 
miscarry  this  time.  Canst  thou  not  see  the  light, 
Walter?" 

"There  is  no  light,"  answered  Walter,  from  the 
window.  "  The  river  lieth  mostly  in  shadow,  and  it  is 
dark  as  death." 

"  Some  mistake  hath  doubtless  arisen,"  said  Roger, 
"  in  spite  of  what  thou  sayest,  Ralph.  Shall  I  go  down 
to  the  river  and  see  ?  " 

Wentworth  shook  his  head.  "  Too  dangerous  for 
thee,  Roger,  but  what  saith  his  Majesty  ?  " 

"  We  will  not  trouble  you  so  far,  Master  Sparowe," 
answered  Charles,  courteously,  "  We  owe  you  too 
many  thanks  for  your  present  care  of  us,  to  suffer  you 
to  jeopardize  your  life  further.  Neither  is  it  safe  for 
one  well-known  as  you  are  to  be  about  the  town  at 
night.  'Twould  cause  fresh  suspicion." 

"  What  can  we  do  then  ?  "  cried  Wentworth,  in  a  tone 
of  despair. 

"  Why  wait,  man,  as  we  have  waited  any  time  these 
three  weeks,  and  keep  a  brave  heart,"  returned  Charles, 
with  imperturbable  good  humour.  "  Methinks  'tis  a 


A    NIGHT   WATCH.  187 

lesson  thou  hast  had  opportunity  enough  to  learn, 
Ralph,  ere  now.  Nay,  look  not  so  downcast.  Have 
we  slipped  so  often  through  Sultan  Oliver's  fingers,  to 
lose  courage  now,  because  a  signal  light  is  delayed  for 
an  hour.  Out  upou  thee,  friend  !  Wilmot,  now,  had 
been  of  stouter  heart." 

"  Tis  my  anxiety  for  your  majesty  which  causeth  me 
to  be  thus  faint-spirited,"  returned  Wentworth.  "  For 
myself  I  care  not,  but  I  cannot  forget  that  'twas  to  my 
charge  that  my  Lord  Wilmot  trusted  you." 

"  Wilmot  is  a  good  fellow,  an  excellent  fellow,"  replied 
Charles,  "  and  hath  a  greater  love  for  my  poor  self  than 
it  deserves.  Nevertheless  he  is  foolish  in  some  things. 
What  think  you,  Master  Sparowe,  of  a  man  who  goeth 
about  the  country  in  danger  of  his  life,  and  will  wear  no 
disguise,  because  he  saith  it  becomes  him  not  ?  Gentle- 
men, an  I  had  stayed  to  think  of  what  became  me,  I  had 
not  kept  a  head,  ugly  or  handsome,  on  my  shoulders." 

Somewhat  rueful  as  this  sally  sounded  in  the  dead 
stillness  of  the  night,  it  raised  a  little  laugh,  which  did 
every  one  good,  and  helped  to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  the 
forlorn  company.  But  when  the  September  dawn  came 
in  at  the  chapel  window,  even  Charles,  sanguine  as  he 
was,  could  not  but  admit  that  the  enterprise  had  failed. 

The  prospect  before  them  was  now  desperate.  Hope 
of  escape  was  remote,  and  the  danger  immediate,  as 
Roger  warned  them  when  he  came  up  for  a  second  con- 
sultation. For  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  fugitives 
to  remain  in  the  house  through  the  day,  even  if  the  tide 
would  serve  to  carry  out  the  plan  the  next  night.  The 
town  was  a  very  stronghold  of  Puritanism,  and  it  needed 
but  a  whisper  from  Master  Burroughs  to  bring  an  angry 
mob  about  their  ears.  Besides,  they  had  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  the  arrangements,  which  had  not  taken 
effect  once,  could  be  successfully  carried  out  a  second 
time.  Before  any  decision  could  be  arrived  at,  it  was 
imperatively  necessary  to  learn  the  reason  of  the  failure, 
and  whether  it  was  due  to  any  discovery  which  would 
oblige  them  to  leave  Ipswich  at  once. 

"  Someone  must  go  forthwith  to  the  river,  and  have 


188  A   KINO'S    RANSOM. 

news  of  the  boat,"  said  Wentworth.  "  But  whom  shall 
we  send  ?  None  of  us  dare  stir,  and  thou,  Roger,  art 
scarcely  less  suspect." 

"  And  why  not  Father  Martin  ?  "  asked  Walter  from 
the  window. 

"  Well  said,  Master  Walter.  Father  Martin  let  it  be," 
replied  Charles.  "  But  how  to  convey  news  of  our 
straits  to  him,  and  bring  him  hither,  without  raising 
suspicion  ?" 

"  That  shall  be  seen  to,"  replied  Wentworth.  "  Thou 
Roger,  must  help  in  this  matter,  for  love  of  me.  'Tis 
the  last  service  I  will  ask  of  thee." 

"  I  leave  it  to  your  wise  consideration,"  said  Charles, 
yawning.  "  For  in  good  sooth,  gentlemen,  my  head  is 
so  greatly  wearied  with  the  night's  work  that  I  can 
scarce  keep  awake.  I  would  give  my  chance  of  the 
three  kingdoms — small  enough  at  this  moment,  I  trow 
— for  half-an-hour's  sleep." 

Wentworth  looked  anxiously  at  him.  "  Your  Majesty 
is  overworn,"  he  said.  "  Sleep  you  must  have,  sir,  or 
your  strength  will  fail  at  the  critical  moment.  And 
since  we  must  wait  an  hour  or  more  for  news,  use  it,  I 
beseech  you,  to  take  rest,  while  Walter  and  I  keep 
watch.  The  couch  is  rough,  and  we  dare  not  go  below, 
but  if  you  could  accommodate  yourself  to  it,  sir  "... 

"  I  need  no  beseeching,  good  Ralph.  How  thou  art 
not  thyself,  and  Walter  too,  wearied  to  death,  passeth 
my  comprehension.  Never  was  softer  bed  to  a  tired 
man,"  he  continued,  as  he  flung  himself  down.  "  If 
news  come,  and  I  am  needed,  call  me." 

And  the  next  minute,  in  spite  of  the  tremendous 
issues  of  life  and  death  hanging  over  him,  the  wanderer 
had  forgotten  all  his  cares  and  troubles,  and  was 
sleeping  as  peacefully  as  a  child.  He  slept  on  while  a 
carefully- worded  note  was  dispatched  to  Master  Sturges; 
slept  while  the  sun  rose  higher,  and  broad  daylight 
awoke  the  household,  and  the  business  of  daily  life 
began,  within  doors  and  without.  Wentworth  would 
not  wake  him  even  when  Joan  appeared,  laden  with  a 
substantial  breakfast,  and  regaled  the  fugitives,  while 


A    NIGHT   WATCH.  189 

she  served  them,  with  a  whole  budget  of  town  gossip 
she  had  already  picked  up  at  the  house  door.  Not 
until,  some  three  hours  later,  Master  Sturges  came 
hurrying  up  the  narrow  oaken  stairs,  and  across  the 
loft,  at  such  unusual  speed  that  he  almost  fell  headlong 
down  the  steps  which  led  to  the  chapel,  did  Wentworth 
think  it  necessary  to  rouse  the  tired  sleeper. 

Master  Sturges,  or  Father  Martin  rather,  for  he 
doffed  his  cap  and  his  false  beard,  and  entered  the 
chapel  as  the  smooth-shaven  Catholic  priest,  was 
breathless  with  haste  and  agitation.  Drops  of  sweat 
stood  on  his  forehead,  his  face  was  purple,  and  for  a 
moment  he  could  not  speak  for  excitement. 

"  Foiled !  "  he  exclaimed  at  last,  stamping  his  foot  on 
the  ground.  "  Foiled !  and  by  a  woman  !  " 

"  A  woman  !  How  ?  what  mean  you  ?  "  exclaimed 
Walter  and  Ralph  together ;  and  Charles,  rising  from 
the  ground,  broad  awake  in  a  moment,  came  forward 
and  said  more  quietly,  "  Take  breath  first,  father,  and 
then  declare  your  tidings." 

"  A  woman,  sir,  hath  wrought  this  mischief,  alas!  The 
most  pitiful,  paltry  jade,  to  whose  apron  strings  a  king's 
ransom  was  ever  tied.  I  almost  shame  to  tell  the  tale." 

"  Out  with  it,  father,"  replied  Charles.  "  111  news  is 
never  the  better  for  keeping.  'Twill  not  be  the  first 
time,  nor  the  last  either,  that  a  man's  life  hath  hung 
upon  a  woman's  whim." 

"  But  how  hath  a  woman  got  wind  of  this  business  at 
all?  "  asked  Wentworth.  "  Have  we  been  betrayed  by 
any  in  the  house  ?  Surely  not  thy  mother,  Walter." 

"  Never  1 "  answered  Walter,  vehemently.  "  And  she 
knoweth  nought  of  the  escape." 

"  None  have  betrayed  us  so  far,"  answered  Father 
Martin.  "  'Tis  the  wife  of  the  skipper  who  hath  foiled 
the  plan.  This  wretched  creature,  having  some  hint  of 
her  husband's  doings,  and  marvelling  that  he  should  go 
to  sea  again  so  soon,  when  he  was  but  just  returned, 
began  to  suspect  that  he  had  a  treaty  with  the  other 
side,  for  which  his  head,  and  her's  too,  might  have  to 
pay.  Nought  to  him  saith  she  of  her  doubts,  which 


190  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

had  put  both  him  and  us  on  our  guard.  But  about  an 
hour  before  midnight  last  night  as  he  was  in  his 
chamber  preparing  to  start,  she  claps  to  the  door,  and 
fastens  it  on  him,  and  holdeth  him  close  prisoner.  And 
the  man,  finding  himself  thus  bested,  and  not  daring  to 
make  much  stir — for  she  swore  that  if  he  forced  the 
door,  she  would  go  forthwith  to  the  town  council,  and 
lay  an  information  against  him,  that  he  was  carrying 
two  Royalists  over  to  Holland — could  no  other  than 
abide  quietly  till  she  let  him  forth.  Which  she  did  at 
eight  of  the  clock  this  morning,  when  all  chance  of 
going  was  at  end.  I  have  at  this  moment  had  speech 
of  the  man.  He  is  yet  willing,  he  saith,  to  carry  out 
his  bargain,  an  he  can  be  rid  of  his  wife,  but  the  tide 
will  not  serve  for  a  week." 

"  A  week !  "  echoed  the  three  eager  listeners. 

"A  week  I  'tis  impossible,"  said  Wentworth.  "In 
three  days  time,  sir,  you  must  be  quit  of  this  ungrateful 
country." 

"  A  week  will  not  help  us,  father,"  said  Charles, 
shaking  his  head. 

"  Ay,  so  I  thought,  my  liege,  and  therefore  I  took 
upon  me  to  tell  him  the  bargain  was  at  an  end,  and  he 
poorer  by  a  round  sum  of  money  than  he  might  have 
been.  Whereat  he  grumbled  and  cursed  his  wife.  And 
hither  have  I  come  as  fast  as  feet  would  carry  me,  to 
advise  with  you  all  touching  the  grave  peril  wherein  the 
King  doth  stand." 


191 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    ESCAPE. 


IT  was  now  plain  that  nothing  but  instant  flight 
would  save  the  whole  party.  Suspicion  against  them 
was  evidently  rife  throughout  the  town,  and  Master 
Burroughs'  visit  was  rather  the  outcome,  than  the  cause 
of  it.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  from  what  quarter  the 
danger  would  come.  At  any  moment  the  house  might 
be  invaded  by  a  search  party  of  soldiers,  or  by  what  was 
still  more  alarming,  a  fanatical  Puritan  mob.  There 
was  a  moment's  hasty  consultation,  whether  it  might  not 
be  well  for  the  fugitives  to  remain  in  the  house,  and 
conceal  themselves  in  the  secret  chamber,  rather  than 
risk  a  flight  in  broad  daylight  across  the  open  country. 
The  hiding  place  was  large  enough  to  contain  two. 

"  And  for  myself  I  do  not  fear,"  said  Walter,  who  had 
suggested  the  plan.  "  My  brother's  name,  and  mine  own, 
will  shelter  me.  We  have  been  here  so  long  ;  the  towns- 
folk will  not  dare  to  attack  a  Sparowe,  even  though  he 
be  one  of  the  Malignants,  as  they  call  us.  And  your 
Majesty  and  Ralph  will  be  safe  in  the  secret  chamber." 

"Ay,  but  the  food,"  objected  Ralph.  "If  they  occupy 
the  house,  as  they  may  do  for  a  time,  they  will  starve 
us  out.  The  open  country,  methinks,  is  safer." 

"The  open  country  it  shall  be,"  decided  Charles. 
"  Walter,  your  noble  spirit  doth  honour  to  your  ancient 
name  and  lineage,  but  your  courage  shall  not  be  thus 
severely  tested.  And  as  touching  your  brother's  hospi- 
tality, which  I  made  free  to  take  unasked,  methinks  I 
have  used  it  longer  than  befits  a  gentleman.  He  shall 
not  shelter  us  another  day  at  such  imminent  risk." 

"Walter  raised  Charles'  hand  to  his  lips.  "Would 
Roger  could  hear  you,  my  liege  !  Albeit  he  is  a  Puritan, 
'twould  be  the  proudest  moment  of  his  life.  But  for  any 


192  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

poor  service  I  may  have  done  you,  I  beseech  you,  speak 
not  of  it.  My  heart's  blood  were  not  too  heavy  a  price 
to  pay  for  your  Majesty's  safety.  And  I  have  done 
little ;  Ralph  hath  borne  the  burden  of  the  flight." 

"I  am  greatly  beholden  to  you  both,"  said  Charles, 
graciously.  "  Ye  have  acted  as  true  and  loyal  servants 
of  the  Crown.  Though,  methinks,  'tis  small  service  to 
save  so  worthless  a  neck  from  the  block  to  which,  after 
all,  it  may  chance  to  come  at  last." 

"  Prithee,  sir,"  quoth  Wentworth,  almost  impatiently, 
"  cease  this  talk,  and  consider,  I  beseech  you,  our  means 
of  flight.  And  thou,  Walter,  shouldest  know  better  than 
to  fool  away  the  precious  time  in  idle  speeches.  Every 
moment's  delay  may  cost  us  our  lives.  Since  your 
Majesty  desires  to  escape  across  the  country, — and  I 
think  myself  that  'tis  the  safer  course,  while  the  way  is 
open — how  shall  we  leave  the  house  ?  " 

It  was  quickly  decided  that  they  should  start  by  the 
small  postern  gate  leading  from  the  alcove,  the  same 
which  should  have  witnessed  their  flight  last  night. 
They  agreed  to  take  nothing  with  them  but  their  arms, 
and  such  provisions  as  they  could  carry,  and  Mistress 
Margaret  could  provide  at  a  moment's  notice.  The 
preparations  for  the  journey  were  soon  made.  Charles 
had  long  since  parted  with  all  his  ornaments,  his  watch, 
and  the  jewelled  George  bequeathed  him  by  his  father. 
The  clothes  in  which  he  had  come  had  hitherto  proved 
a  sufficient  disguise,  and  in  order  to  carry  out  effectually 
the  character  of  humble  serving  man,  he  thrust  his 
delicate  hands  up  the  chimney  of  the  attic,  and  blackened 
his  face  with  the  soot. 

"  And  which  am  I  now,  father,  so  please  you  to  tell 
me,  king  or  groom  ?  "  he  asked,  gaily,  catching  sight  of 
Father  Martin's  horror-stricken  face  at  the  moment  of 
transformation.  "  Did  ever  your  eyes  behold  so  unkingly 
a  spectacle  ?  An  the  villains  take  me,  they  will  let  me 
go  again,  as  scarce  worth  the  killing." 

"  To  see  your  Majesty  thus,  I  who  have  been  in  your 
royal  father's  service,  and  have  known  you  from  a 
child ! "  wept  Father  Martin,  throwing  himself  on  his 


THE    ESCAPE.  193 

knees  and  trying  to  seize  Charles'  hand,  and  kiss  it ; 
but  Wentworth  put  him  roughly  back. 

"  Stand  up,  sir  priest,  and  show  your  love  for  the  King 
by  helping,  not  by  hindering  his  flight.  Now,  if  you  are 
ready,  sir  ...  your  cloak  .  .  .  your  cap  "... 

As  he  spoke,  Walter  flung  a  short  cloak,  stained  with 
grease  and  dust,  over  the  King's  doublet,  and  fastened 
it  at  the  throat  with  a  ragged  string. 

"  Oh,  if  Wilmot  could  but  see  me ! "  said  Charles, 
laughing  till  the  tears  ran  down  his  grimy  cheeks. 
"  But  no,  he  were  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  recognise  me 
now.  Know  you,  Father,  that  he  will  not  consent  to 
wear  any  disguise  ?  " 

Meanwhile  Roger  downstairs  was  making  a  sorry  feint 
to  eat  his  breakfast,  and  to  parry  Mistress  Margaret's 
ceaseless  questions  about  the  cause  of  his  pale  face  and 
agitated  looks.  So  difficult  was  the  task,  that  he  hailed, 
as  a  positive  relief,  the  news  that  the  fugitives  were 
making  preparations  to  start  immediately.  Longer 
concealment  being  now  impossible,  the  announcement 
was  openly  made,  and  Roger  was  able  to  explain  the 
cause  of  his  anxiety.  Mistress  Margaret's  astonishment 
and  dismay  were  unbounded. 

"  But  oh,  Roger !  "  she  exclaimed,  cutting  him  suddenly 
short,  "they  will  not  surely  take  Walter  with  them. 
There  is  no  need  that  the  boy  should  go,  when  he  is  but 
just  returned.  He  hath  had  fatigue  enough  since  the 
battle,  and  needeth  rest." 

"  Rest,  mother,"  said  Roger,  with  a  sad  smile,  "  and 
what  rest,  thinkest  thou,  will  he  have  here  ?  Nay, 
Walter  goeth  too,  as  I  have  understood.  In  sooth,  this 
house  is  no  place  for  him.  'Tis  safer  far  that  he  should 
leave  England." 

Mistress  Margaret  raised  her  hands  in  horror. 
11  Leave  England  ?  Thou  wilt  send  him  into  a  foreign 
land  ?  Never,  Roger,  never !  Thou  shalt  not  part  us 
in  this  manner.  Thou  canst  shelter  him  here,  if  thou 
wilt ;  thine  own  good  name,  and  mine,  will  avail.  They 
cannot  lay  a  finger  on  him." 

"  Mother,  thou  dost  forget,"  said  Roger,  shaking  his 

o 


194  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

head  sorrowfully,  "Thou  art  thyself  a  Royalist,  and 
therefore  suspect.  I  shall  have  some  ado,  I  fear  me,  to 
keep  thee  scatheless  1 " 

"  Me ! "  exclaimed  Mistress  Margaret,  indignantly. 
"  Dost  think  they  will  dare  to  touch  me,  who  have  lived 
here  so  long  without  a  word  spoken  against  me  ? 
Roger,  trouble  hath  turned  thy  brain." 

"  The  Lord  grant  thy  words  be  true !  Meanwhile 
thou  must  consent  to  part  from  Walter  for  a  time,  until 
these  troubles  be  past.  And  then — I  pledge  thee  my 
word  thou  shalt  have  him  back  in  safety,  and  we  will 
all  live  together  in  peace." 

At  this  moment  a  serving  man  brought  Roger  word 
that  a  woman  desired  to  speak  with  him  in  the  great 
hall.  In  his  official  capacity  Roger  was  constantly  liable 
to  these  interruptions.  He  was  too  well  used  to  them 
to  be  alarmed  at  the  present  summons.  He  hailed  it 
rather  as  a  diversion,  and  pushing  away  his  untasted 
breakfast,  he  went  out  at  once  into  the  hall.  At  the 
foot  of  the  great  oaken  staircase,  where  she  seemed  to 
have  dropped  through  sheer  weariness,  lay  a  woman 
huddled  in  an  old  cloak.  Her  breath  came  in  great 
laboured  sobs,  and  she  seemed  so  utterly  exhausted, 
that  she  did  not  move,  when  the  door  swung  behind 
Roger.  He  came  towards  her  and  touched  her  gently. 

"  What  is  there  I  can  do  for  thee,  my  good  woman  ?  " 
he  asked  at  last. 

The  woman  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  as  her  cloak  fell 
back,  Roger  saw  the  coarse  handsome  features,  and 
buxom  figure,  which  had  haunted  him  ever  since  his 
first  sight  of  them  in  the  inn  at  Colchester.  But  the 
rounded  cheeks  were  now  sunken  and  pale,  the  red  lips 
trembled,  and  the  woman's  bold  black  eyes  had  such  a 
look  of  terror  in  them,  that  Roger  shrank  back  appalled. 
Involuntarily  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"  Thou  here,  thou  ill-fated  woman  ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  evil  destiny  hath  brought  thee  hither  ?  How 
hast  thou  dared  to  come,  and  thrust  thyself  under  the 
same  roof  as  my  mother  ?  She  will  be  here  anon,  she 
will  see  thee !  Get  thee  gone  at  once." 


THE    ESCAPE.  195 

The  woman  sank  on  the  ground,  and  clasped  Roger's 
knees.  "  Hear  me,  sweet,  sir,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  ere 
you  drive  me  away.  I  have  come  from  Colchester  since 
break  of  day,  running  well  nigh  every  step  of  the  way  "  .  . 

"  And  wherefore  ? "  asked  Roger,  coldly,  as  the 
woman  paused  to  take  breath. 

"  To  warn  you,  you  and  your  brother,  and  those  whom 
ye  shelter  here,  that  ye  are  all  in  danger  of  death," 
she  cried.  "  Oh,  if  your  honour  would  but  give  heed  to 
what  I  say.  They  must  fly  at  once,  this  very  hour,  for 
their  lives." 

Roger  paused.  Left  to  himself,  he  would  not  have 
hesitated  an  instant  to  put  the  woman  out  of  the  house. 
The  news  she  brought  might  be  merely  a  device  to  gain 
admission.  But  suddenly  he  remembered  that  Went- 
worth,  the  day  before,  had  confessed  that  this  woman 
brought  them  secret  intelligence,  and  had  been  trusted 
with  the  delicate  negotiations  about  the  boat.  Shrinking 
involuntarily  from  contact  with  her,  he  nevertheless 
forced  himself  to  look  her  steadily  in  the  face  as  he 
asked  :  "  From  whence  hast  thou  this  news  ?  And  who 
hath  told  thee  that  I  shelter  any  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  sent  hither,  and  have  had  speech  of  your 
honour's  friend,  and  of  Master  Sturges,"  she  answered. 
"  I  had  thought  your  honour  knew  thereof.  And,  oh, 
sir,"  she  continued,  clasping  her  hands,  "  an  you  will 
not  believe  me  yourself,  let  me  go  to  them,  I  beseech 
you.  They  will  give  credence  to  my  words." 

"  Tell  me  first  from  whence  thou  hast  the  news." 

"  Roger,"  interrupted  Mistress  Margaret's  silvery 
voice,  from  the  door  of  the  sitting  room,  "  bid  the  poor 
creature  come  in  here.  She  is  breathless  and  weary, 
and  will  be  glad  to  rest.  And  speak  gently  to  her,  my 
son.  Thou  art  not  wont  to  be  so  rough  and  churlish." 

"  Mother,  go  back,  I  beseech  thee,  I  command  thee ! " 
cried  Roger,  imperiously.  "  The  hall  is  good  enough 
for  her.  She  shall  not  come  in  thither.  That  which 
she  hath  to  say,  she  shall  say  it  here." 

The  woman  wrung  her  hands.  "  Good  sir,  sweet 
madam,  so  you  do  but  hear,  I  care  not  where  I  speak. 


196  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

For  while  we  parley,  the  soldiers  are  already  on  the 
road." 

"  The  soldiers !  "  shrieked  Mistress  Margaret. 

"  Ay,  the  soldiers.  For  the  love  of  the  dear  Christ, 
listen  to  me.  A  party  of  the  Parliament  men  lay  at  our 
inn  last  night,  and  as  I  served  them,  I  marked  how  they 
let  fall  the  name  of  Sparowe.  Whereat  I  gave  good 
heed,  as  your  honour  may  conceive,  and  heard  them 
presently  say  that  they  would  come  here  at  six  of  the 
clock  this  morning,  would  surround  the  house  that  none 
might  escape,  and  seize  the  King  of  Scots,  having 
certain  intelligence  that  he  is  in  hiding  here.  I  sought 
to  get  from  the  house  and  come  hither  last  night,  but 
could  not  do  it,  the  men  not  suffering  me  to  depart. 
But  this  morning  I  slipped  away  before  break  of  day." 

During  this  speech  Mistress  Margaret  had  stood  gazing 
at  the  woman  with  a  look  of  growing  horror.  Suddenly 
she  sprang  forward,  and  seized  Roger  by  the  arm. 

"  Roger,  come  from  her,"  she  cried.  "Thou  dost  well 
not  to  have  her  in  the  house.  She  is  distraught,  the 
poor  creature,  and  raveth  of  the  King.  Neither  King 
of  Scots  nor  King  of  England  is  in  hiding  here." 

Roger  shook  off  his  mother's  hand,  and  pointed  up 
the  stairs.  "  Thou  knowest  where  they  are,"  he  said, 
hastily,  to  the  woman.  "  Up  thither  as  fast  as  feet  can 
carry  thee,  and  bid  them  come  at  once.  There  is  no 
other  way  of  escape  now,  save  through  the  passage." 

As  the  woman  sped  up  to  the  attic,  Roger  turned  to 
his  mother,  and  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  he  said, 
gently  :  "  Mother,  be  calm.  Make  not  the  work  harder 
for  us  all,  I  beseech  thee.  We  thought  to  have  spared 
thee,  but  now  thou  must  hear  all.  The  Lord  grant  thee 
strength  to  bear  it !  " 

Mistress  Margaret  looked  at  him  in  terror,  and  tried 
to  withdraw  her  hands. 

"  What  is  there  to  know,  Roger?"  she  asked.  "What 
further  secrets  hast  thou  kept  from  me  ?  Here  is  thy 
friend,  Ralph  Wentworth,  whom  I  have  small  cause  to 
love,  and  his  serving  man.  Saving  these,  and  thine 
own  brother,  there  are  none  in  the  house,  I  will  take 


THE    ESCAPE.  197 

my  oath  on't.  Or  are  there  others,"  she  added,  fiercely, 
"  of  whom  I  know  not  ?  " 

"  None  others,"  answered  Roger.  "  Thou  hast  seen 
and  spoken  with  him  they  call  the  King  of  Scots.  Tis 
the  young  serving  man,  Will  Somers.  For  his  sake, 
Walter,  and  Ralph  Wentworth,  and  I  also,  it  may  be, 
have  risked  our  lives." 

Roger  tried  to  speak  quietly,  hoping  to  calm  his 
mother  by  his  own  composure.  Mistress  Margaret 
looked  doubtfully  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  burst  into 
an  hysterical  laugh. 

"  Fie  upon  thee,  Roger,  to  make  such  a  fool  of  me  ! 
Dost  hope  to  trick  me  thus  ?  Or  hast  thou  so  mean  an 
opinion  of  his  Majesty  the  King,  as  to  think  he  would 
demean  himself  after  such  a  fashion  ?  Will  Somers, 
forsooth,  with  his  cropped  hair  and  dirty  clothes  !  Will 
Somers,  the  King  !  " 

"  The  same,  fair  lady.  Charles  Stuart  and  Will 
Somers  are  one  and  the  same  person,  and  at  your 
service,  madam,"  said  a  voice  behind  her.  "'Tis  a 
small  matter  that  you  know  me  not ;  i'  faith,  sometimes 
I  scarce  know  myself.  As  witness  in  this  present  guise, 
for  the  which  I  pray  you  to  excuse  me." 

Mistress  Margaret  turned,  and  beheld  a  tattered 
figure,  dirty  beyond  recognition.  The  eyes  alone, 
bright,  sparkling,  and  even  at  this  moment  of  supreme 
peril,  dancing  with  momentary  amusement,  betrayed  the 
speaker.  She  shrank  back  in  consternation. 

"  Sir  ...  Will  Somers !  ...  His  Majesty  ! "  .  .  .  she 
stammered. 

"Any  or  all  of  them,"  replied  Charles,  urbanely. 
"  Nay,  madam,"  for  Mistress  Margaret  burst  into  tears, 
and  flinging  herself  on  her  knees,  tried  to  seize  his  hand 
and  kiss  it,  "  I  entreat  you,  forbear.  This  hand  hath 
lately  made  too  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  chimney, 
to  be  worthy  of  a  lady's  fair  lips.  When  a  man's  neck 
is  in  danger,  he  is  not  over  nice  concerning  his  appear- 
ance. It  is  I  rather  who  should  kneel  and  kiss  your 
hand,  and  thank  you  for  the  generous  shelter  granted 
to  poor  Will  Somers." 


198  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

While  this  little  scene  was  in  progress,  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Sturges  glided  down  the  stairs  in  the  rear  of  the 
party.  Amid  the  turmoil  and  confusion,  the  sight  of  his 
black  cassock,  and  broad,  stiffly-starched  collar  and 
band,  his  solemn  gait  and  imperturbable  face,  was 
absolutely  soothing.  Nothing  could  be  more  admirably 
in  keeping  than  his  low  greeting,  half  whine,  half  snuffle, 
as  he  passed  Roger  on  his  way  to  the  door :  "  Good  day 
to  you,  my  son.  The  Lord  be  with  you !  "  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  Roger  felt  a  movement  towards  the 
man  which  was  not  wholly  hatred.  No  one  could  tell 
what  dangers  might  lie  beyond  the  threshold  he  now 
crossed  so  sedately.  At  such  a  crisis,  with  death  staring 
them  all  in  the  face,  the  young  man  could  not  sufficiently 
admire  Master  Sturges'  invincible  self-possession.  And 
the  priest's  strength  seemed  to  be  communicated  to 
others,  by  a  kind  of  subtle  sympathy.  Roger  tried 
to  emulate  him  in  the  calmness  with  which  he  turned  to 
the  group  in  the  hall,  and  joined  in  the  hurried  discussion. 

Wentworth  was  as  prompt  as  ever  with  his  counsel. 

"  We  must  escape  at  once  by  the  postern  door.  We 
thought  to  stay  for  such  food  as  Mistress  Margaret 
might  be  able  to  give  us,  but  now  we  dare  not  wait.  I 
beseech  your  Majesty  to  come  at  once.  If  we  delay 
longer  we  may  endanger  the  lives  of  all  in  the  house." 

"  I  come,  Ralph,  I  come,"  returned  Charles.  "  Master 
Sparowe,  farewell.  I  dare  not  speak  of  that  I  owe  you, 
but  if  ever  "... 

At  this  moment  Roger  held  up  his  hand.  Outside, 
in  the  street,  they  could  hear  the  sound  of  many  voices, 
and  the  tramp  of  feet,  like  the  roar  of  a  great  multitude. 
The  front  door  swung  open,  and  Joan  entered,  a  market 
basket  on  her  arm.  Pale  and  terrified,  her  kerchief 
ruffled,  her  dress  in  disorder,  she  rushed  to  Roger,  and 
clutched  his  arm. 

"  Master,  save  me,  save  me,"  she  cried.  "  The  people 
be  all  coming  hither,  and  they  caught  me,  and  hustled 
me,  and  broke  mine  eggs  for  me — see  here !  And  they 
swore  deep  oaths  that  one  named  Charles  Stuart,  I 
think  they  called  him,  was  here,  and  that  he  should 


THE    ESCAPE.  199 

escape  them  no  longer,  but  they  would  pull  the  house 
down  about  our  ears  to  have  him  "... 

Joan  broke  off  with  a  shriek,  as  the  great  hall  door 
swung  to  with  a  terrible  clash  behind  her.  Wentworth 
had  sprung  forward  at  her  first  words,  closed  the  door, 
and  hastily  made  it  fast. 

"  That  will  give  us  five  minutes'  breathing  time,"  he 
said,  shortly.  "  Now  sir,  for  our  lives !  There  is  nought 
but  that  door  between  us  and  destruction." 

"  By  the  secret  way !  "  cried  Roger.  "  There  is  none 
other  now.  The  house  is  surrounded,  and  the  postern 
gate  will  be  watched." 

"  By  that  mouldy  passage ! "  answered  Charles. 
"  Well,  since  there  is  no  help,  the  saints  grant  we  be 
not  stifled  in  it." 

"  And  wilt  thou  come  and  open  to  us,  Roger  ?  "  said 
Walter,  as  they  hurried  off  towards  the  wainscotted 
room,  "  or  shall  I  stay  behind  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  will  come,"  answered  Roger,  briefly.  "  Ho, 
you  men  there  !  Guard  this  door  for  five  minutes  for 
your  lives.  Let  none  pass  save  across  your  bodies. 
Here,  Jock — Ben — Will  Jones  !  Ye  have  been  faithful 
to  me,  and  to  my  father  before  me.  Prove  yourselves 
true  men  now,  and  stand  by  your  master.  'Tis  life  and 
death  with  us." 

"  Ay,  ay,  your  honour."  And  half-a-dozen  men  came 
rushing  up  from  the  buttery,  and  raised  a  shout  as  they 
gathered  round  Roger,  hearing  which  the  fast  thickening 
crowd  outside  wavered  for  a  moment. 

"  Now,  mother "...  but  Mistress  Margaret  had 
swooned  at  all  the  horrors  round  her,  the  meaning  of 
which  she  only  half  understood,  and  Joan  rushed 
forward,  barely  in  time  to  receive  her  in  her  arms,  as 
she  reeled  and  fell. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  minute  with  Roger  to  loosen  the 
wedge-shaped  projection  in  the  wainscotted  room,  which 
concealed  the  secret  on  which  so  many  precious  lives 
were  hanging.  But  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  spring, 
and  tried  to  snap  it,  he  became  instantly  aware  that 
something  was  wrong.  No  whirring  sound,  no  noiseless 


200  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

sliding  of  well  greased  panels  answered  to  his  touch. 
He  pressed  the  spring  again  and  again  with  frantic 
efforts,  but  in  vain  ;  it  refused  to  move. 

"  Walter's  white  face  appeared  at  the  cupboard  door. 
"  Brother,  the  panel ;  it  opens  not.  Make  haste  with 
the  spring  there.  Delay  not,  when  every  moment  is 
precious." 

"  'Tis  not  I  who  delay,  Walter,"  answered  Roger, 
looking  up,  breathless  and  crimson  with  agitation,  from 
the  recess.  "The  spring  is  set  fast.  Some  one  hath 
tampered  with  it.  Christ !  it  will  not  act !  " 

It  was  true.  All  their  efforts  to  work  the  spring  were 
unavailing,  and  when  the  young  men  tried  by  sheer  force 
to  thrust  the  panel  back,  without  the  spring  to  set  it 
in  motion,  they  found  the  task  beyond  their  strength. 
So  thoroughly  had  the  artificer  done  his  work,  that  the 
panel  was  as  immovable  as  the  rest  of  the  wall,  when 
the  machinery  to  push  it  aside  failed. 

"  By  the  postern  gate,  then,  since  the  saints  will  have 
it  so !  "  said  Charles  at  last,  as  they  desisted  breathlessly 
from  their  efforts,  and  gathered  round  him  with  despair 
in  their  faces.  "  Marry,  sirs,  if  we  save  our  necks  this 
time,  we  shall  do  well." 

At  this  moment  there  was  an  awful  roar  from  the 
front  of  the  house.  The  great  entrance  had  been  burst 
open  at  last ;  and  they  could  hear  the  tramp  of 
many  feet  as  the  crowd  rushed  into  the  hall.  Roger 
sprang  up. 

"  I  will  go  to  them,"  he  exclaimed.  "  My  name  hath 
still  some  weight.  Peradventure  they  will  listen  to  me 
for  a  few  moments.  I  can  at  least  hold  them  in  check 
while  ye  escape  through  the  postern." 

And  drawing  his  slight  figure  to  its  full  height,  he 
walked  across  the  room,  his  head  erect,  his  pale  face 
calm  and  resolute,  to  face  a  mob  ready,  for  aught  he 
knew,  to  tear  him  to  pieces. 

Roger  was  not  alone  in  his  courage.  Years  after,  he 
remembered  how,  as  he  left  the  room,  he  heard  Walter 
say,  in  a  strangely  exulting  voice :  "  Now,  Ralph,  speed. 
Our  plan,  our  plan  !  "  and  for  a  moment  Roger  wondered 


THE   ESCAPE.  201 

how  his  brother  could  speak  cheerfully,  or  think  of  any 
plan  at  that  supreme  crisis. 

The  great  hall  was  filled  with  people.  Half  of  them 
scarcely  knew  what  they  had  come  for  ;  but  as  they  had 
joined  the  crowd  rushing  to  "  Sparowe's  house,"  they 
had  caught  up  some  vague  notion  that  Malignants  were 
in  hiding  there.  Among  a  few  of  the  more  sober 
minded  the  report  had  circulated  that  the  Man  of  Sin, 
Charles  Stuart  himself,  was  verily  concealed  in  the 
house.  These  acted  as  guides  to  the  mob,  and  contrived 
to  press  to  the  front ;  and  each  zealous  Puritan,  as  he 
felt  for  his  pistol  or  stout  bludgeon,  determined  to  strike 
a  blow  for  the  Lord,  and  this  time  to  put  an  end  to 
the  Mystery  of  Iniquity. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  when  Roger  appeared, 
and  asked  in  his  usual  quiet  voice :  "  What  would  ye, 
my  good  sirs  ?  " 

"  'Tis  Master  Sparowe  himself.  We  mean  not  to 
harm  your  honour.  We  know  you  for  one  of  the  godly." 

"  We  come  to  deliver  you  from  these  Malignants,  who 
have  thrust  themselves  upon  you  at  unawares,"  said 
another.  "  Give  them  up  to  us,  or  'twill  be  the  worse 
for  you." 

"  Nay,  he  shall  not  be  threatened,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  who  spoke  with  an  air  of  authority.  "  Hath  he 
not  served  the  good  cause,  and  his  father  before  him  ? 
Look  you,  Master  Sparowe,  we  seek  not  to  do  you 
mischief.  Deliver  up  unto  us  the  Man  of  Sin,  Charles 
Stuart,  who  is  in  hiding  here,  perchance  without  your 
knowledge,  and  not  a  hair  of  your  head  shall  be  hurt." 

"  Firstly,  good  sirs,  I  desire  to  know  your  warrant  for 
entering  a  peaceable  man's  house  in  this  riotous  manner. 
Know  ye  not  that  I  have  power  to  commit  everyone  of 
you  for  breach  of  the  peace  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause.  The  foremost  men  in  the  crowd 
looked  at  each  other,  and  seemed  to  hesitate.  Roger 
took  instant  advantage  of  the  opportunity.  "  Disperse 
yourselves  quietly,"  he  continued,  "and  go  to  your 
homes.  Let  some  of  your  number  come  to  me,  and 
whatsoever  ye  ask  in  reason  it  shall  be  granted." 


202  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

For  one  moment  it  appeared  as  if  Roger's  authority 
alone  would  be  sufficient  to  avert  the  danger,  when  a 
voice  at  the  back  cried :  "  The  sword  of  the  Lord,  and 
of  Gideon !  Brethren,  this  is  the  Lord's  work.  We 
have  put  our  hands  to  the  plough.  Let  us  not  draw 
back  unto  perdition." 

"  Down  with  the  Man  of  Sin  !  "  shouted  half-a-dozen 
men.  "Down  with  the  Stuarts!  Death  to  Charles 
Stuart!" 

It  was  enough.  The  crowd  rushed  furiously  forward 
again,  and  Roger  was  forced  back  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
Here  he  tried  to  make  a  stand,  and  raised  his  hand  to 
entreat  a  hearing,  but  a  respectably-dressed  man  close  to 
him  sprang  on  one  of  the  steps,  and  pulled  his  arm  down. 

"  Twere  better  to  yield  him  at  once,  sir,"  he  said  in 
his  ear.  "  Give  the  Stuart  up  to  us,  and  we  will  do  you 
no  violence.  When  our  fellows  here  have  him,  they  will 
disperse  quietly.  Otherwise — your  blood  be  on  your 
own  head ! " 

"  How  know  ye  that  he  is  here  ?  "  asked  Roger,  trying 
to  parley. 

"  We  have  certain  intelligence  of  it,"  answered  the 
man.  "  Deny  it  not,  at  your  peril." 

"  He  is  here,"  roared  some  of  the  crowd,  catching  a 
few  words  of  the  conversation.  "  He  was  here  half-an- 
hour  since,  and  he  hath  not  escaped — the  house  is 
watched — trifle  with  us  no  longer.  The  Stuart !  We 
will  have  the  Stuart !  "  There  was  a  horrible  silence, 
as  the  dense  mass  surged  resistlessly  forward  towards 
the  inner  door. 

"  Master  Sparowe,"  cried  a  man  in  the  crowd.  "  You 
were  a  Puritan  until  this  day.  Swear  to  us  now  that 
Charles  Stuart  is  not  here,  and  hath  not  been  here,  and 
we  will  believe  you." 

"  Fool,"  interrupted  another,  "  the  godly  swear  not. 
Tell  us,  master,  as  thou  art  one  of  us,  and  hopest  for 
salvation  hereafter,  that  he  is  not  with  thee,  and  it  will 
suffice  us.  In  the  name  of  the  Lord,  is  Charles  Stuart 
here  or  no  ?  " 

The  speaker  snatched  a  dagger  from  his  belt,  sprang 


THE    ESCAPE.  203 

up  the  staircase,  and  held  it  over  Roger's  head  as  he 
spoke.  Roger  glanced  up  at  the  bright  weapon,  and  at 
the  face  of  deadly  hatred  above  it. 

"  He  is  here !  " 

But  before  the  knife  could  fall,  Roger  heard  the  door 
behind  him  swiftly  unbolted,  and  someone  came  forward 
from  the  inner  room. 

"  Good  people  all,"  said  a  voice,  which,  though  it  was 
feigned,  made  Roger  start  with  surprise,  "  my  master 
hath  sent  me  to  learn  the  cause  of  this  uproar,  and  to 
pray  you  not  to  molest  his  trusty  friend  here,  Master 
Sparowe.  Whatsoever  you  desire,  my  master  and  I  are 
ready  to  give  you  satisfaction." 

A  dead  silence  succeeded  to  the  uproar.  The  crowd 
retreated  in  astonishment,  and  an  open  space  was  left 
between  Roger  and  the  new  comer.  Roger  turned,  and 
lo !  at  his  elbow  stood  Will  Somers  himself,  in  his 
greasy  jerkin  and  torn  hose,  his  dirty  steeple-crowned 
hat  slouched  over  his  face,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  conceal 
his  features.  But  to  escape  detection  was  now  im- 
possible. The  fugitive  had  deliberately  walked  into  the 
very  jaws  of  death. 

"  I  pray  you,  good  sir,"  he  continued,  addressing  a 
man  near  him,  "tell  me  the  cause  of  this  tumult. 
Whom  have  these  people  come  hither  to  seek  ?  " 

"  Why,  thyself,  young  man,  as  it  seemeth  to  me," 
answered  the  other  shortly.  "  Art  thou  not  serving  man 
to  a  Cavalier  who  is  in  hiding  here,  and  is  not  thy  name 
Will  Somers  ?  " 

"  The  same,  at  your  service." 

Roger's  brain  reeled.  Had  Wentworth  and  Walter 
lost  their  wits  in  this  terrible  crisis  ?  Had  they  given  up 
all  hope  of  escape,  and  tamely  allowed  their  carefully- 
guarded  charge  to  thrust  himself  upon  certain  destruc- 
tion ?  Or — or  was  it  not  Charles  at  all  ?  This  man 
was  taller  by  two  or  three  inches  than  Will  Somers, 
and  his  voice,  disguise  it  as  he  would,  sounded  strangely 
familiar.  That  trick  of  the  broad,  shapely  shoulders — 
Roger  had  never  seen  it  in  any  man  before  save  his 
brother  Walter. 


204  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

No  sooner  had  the  speaker  announced  himself  as  Will 
Somers  than  there  was  an  awful  shout  of  execration. 
"  'Tis  he  1  Tis  the  very  man  !  The  Lord  hath  delivered 
him  into  our  hands.  Praised  be  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

"  Have  at  him  !  Tear  him  down  !  The  sword  of  the 
Lord  and  of  Gideon  !  " 

But  Roger  flung  himself  between  the  crowd  and  their 
victim.  "  Sirs,  stand  back !  Ye  touch  him  not,  save 
over  my  dead  body.  Hold  back  there.  I  love  him  not, 
this  Charles  Stuart.  I  am  a  Puritan  as  ye  all  know. 
But  never  shall  it  be  said  that  Roger  Sparowe  suffered 
one  to  whom  he  had  given  shelter  to  be  cut  in  pieces 
before  his  eyes." 

A  fearful  struggle  ensued.  Half-a-dozen  men  flung 
themselves  upon  Roger,  and  tried,  without  actually 
injuring  him,  to  drag  him  away.  Behind  them  the 
surging,  yelling  crowd  was  fighting  to  get  at  the  young 
serving  man.  Roger  stood  his  ground  with  the  strength 
of  ten  men,  but  inch  by  inch  he  was  forced  aside. 

Suddenly  someone  in  the  press  drew  a  pistol,  aimed  it 
deliberately  at  the  false  Will  Somers,  and  fired.  There 
was  a  loud  report,  a  groan,  and  the  sound  of  some  one 
staggering  back.  With  one  mighty  effort,  Roger 
wrenched  himself  from  the  men's  grasp,  and  flew  to  the 
wounded  man,  who  was  leaning  against  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Art  hurt,  man  ?  much 
hurt  ?  Look  up  and  speak.  Oh,  merciful  God  1  'tis 
thou,  Walter ! " 

For  at  this  moment  the  grey  felt  hat  fell  off,  and 
Roger,  in  spite  of  his  hastily  cropped  hair  and  ghastly 
features,  recognized  his  brother.  Walter  put  his  hand 
to  his  side. 

"  Roger,  'tis  all  over  with  me,"  he  whispered.  "  That 
shot  went  home.  But  call  me  Will  Somers  still.  Let 
not  the  knaves  know  that  they  have  not  killed  the  King. 
Oh,  God,  the  pain  I  Mother,  oh,  mother!  " 

Stupified  with  astonishment  and  horror,  Roger  forgot 
the  crowd,  which  had  subsided  in  an  instant  into  ghastly 
silence.  Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  he  burst  open 
the  door  before  him,  and  with  superhuman  strength  half 


THE    ESCAPE.  205 

led,  half  dragged  Walter  into  the  inner  room,  a  track  of 
blood  marking  the  way. 

"My  brain  reels,"  murmured  the  wounded  man. 
"  But  go  back,  brother,  and  tell  them  I  am  hurt  to  death. 
They  will  disperse  then.  And,  oh !  say  it  is  the  King. 
If  only  none  heard  thee  call  me  Walter." 

Roger  obeyed  mechanically.  He  went  back  into  the 
hall,  and  confronted  the  angry  mob  once  more. 

"  Ye  have  done  your  work  well,"  he  said.  "  He  that 
fired  that  shot  had  a  true  aim.  The  man  who  is 
wounded  hath  not  an  hour  to  live.  Go  your  way,  and 
rejoice  that  the  Lord  hath  delivered  him  into  your 
hands." 

And  therewith  he  turned  from  them  into  the  room, 
and  locked  and  doubly  barred  the  door.  Nevertheless 
there  entered  One  with  him,  an  awful  unseen  Presence, 
whom  no  bar  or  bolt  could  keep  out. 


206 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE    PRICE    OF   THE    RANSOM. 


WITH  the  help  of  three  or  four  men  of  the  household, 
Walter  was  brought  into  the  wainscotted  room,  being 
quieter  and  cooler  than  the  outer  parlour.  Here, 
swooning  from  loss  of  blood,  he  was  laid  on  a  huge 
settee,  opposite  the  chimney  corner  and  immediately 
facing  the  fatal  recess,  which  was  still  open,  no  one 
having  had  time  to  close  it. 

Roger,  who  like  many  other  gentlemen,  had  acquired 
a  slight  knowledge  of  surgery  during  the  Civil  War, 
bound  up  the  wound  and  tried  to  staunch  the  blood. 
The  first  shock  over,  his  nerves  grew  steady.  He  thought 
of  everything.  He  eased  his  brother's  position  with 
cushions,  applied  restoratives,  and  hastily  dispatched  a 
servant  for  a  doctor,  half  wondering  at  himself  the  while 
that,  surrounded  by  such  horrors,  he  could  act  in  a 
calm  and  composed  manner.  Then  he  remembered  his 
mother,  and  his  hand  shook  as  he  was  tying  a  bandage, 
at  the  thought  that  the  fearful  news  must  be  broken  to 
her.  For  the  first  time  his  courage  failed  him  ;  he  felt 
that  he  dared  not  do  it  himself. 

Ill  news  travels  fast,  and  Roger  was  not  long  kept  in 
suspense.  Suddenly,  without  a  sound  to  announce  her 
coming,  Mistress  Margaret  glided  into  the  room,  and 
took  her  place  beside  Walter's  couch.  She  did  not 
speak,  and  her  face,  as  she  bent  over  her  son,  was 
almost  as  ghastly  as  his.  Her  eyes  were  bright  and  dry, 
and  Roger  was  terrified  at  the  strange,  wild  look  in 
them ;  while  her  hand,  when  he  touched  it,  was  cold  as 
marble. 

The  physician  came  at  last,  and  made  a  careful 
examination  of  the  wound.  Mistress  Margaret  sat  by 
in  silence,  helping  him  mechanically,  and  looking  from 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  RANSOM.  207 

time  to  time  piteously  in  his  face,  to  read  the  verdict. 
Roger,  who  knew  from  the  first  what  it  must  be,  threw 
his  arm  round  her  to  support  her,  but  she  put  it  gently 
back. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  low  hollow  voice, 
"  will  my  son  die  ?  " 

"  Madam,"  answered  the  physician,  "  I  grieve  to  say 
it,  but  man's  skill  avails  not  here.  This  poor  gentleman 
hath  not  an  hour  to  live.  Is  it  verily  Master  Walter 
Sparowe,  who  hath  come  by  his  death  in  this  strange 
fashion  ?  " 

Mistress  Margaret  shuddered,  but  did  not  speak. 
Roger  laid  his  hand  on  the  leech's  arm,  and  said  in  a 
tone  of  agonized  earnestness :  "  It  is  in  truth,  my 
brother,  sir,  whom  you  have  known  from  a  child.  Can 
nothing  be  done  ?  Beseech  you  to  give  us  hope,  if  it 
be  possible." 

"  It  is  not  possible,"  returned  the  physician,  "  I  can 
do  nought  for  him.  "  If  he  hath  anything  on  his  mind, 
or  there  be  any  one  he  desires  to  see,  it  should  be  seen 
to  forthwith." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  slight  movement,  and  the 
sufferer  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  "  The  King !  Hath  the 
King  escaped  ?  "  he  murmured,  faintly ;  then  perceiving 
that  a  stranger  was  beside  him,  he  closed  his  eyes  with 
a  groan,  muttering  "  Alone  !  Have  they  left  me  then  ? 
Oh,  mother!  Roger  !  " 

"  We  are  here,  brother,"  answered  Roger,  gently, 
laying  his  cool  hand  on  Walter's  burning  forehead  ;  and 
Mistress  Margaret  leant  forward,  and  tried  to  murmur  a 
few  soothing  words.  "  This  is  the  physician,"  continued 
Roger,  "  who  hath  come  to  ease  thee  of  thy  pain." 

Walter  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  looked  up  at  his 
brother.  "  Heard  he  what  I  said  ?  "  he  asked,  anxiously. 
"  Good  sir,  I  did  but  rave.  In  the  anguish  of  my  wound, 
I  scarce  know  what  I  say." 

"  I  doubt  not  but  that  you  will  be  easier  presently," 
said  the  physician,  and  at  the  words  two  tears  trickled 
slowly  down  Mistress  Margaret's  cheeks,  and  fell  on 
Walter's  hand.  He  turned  feebly  to  the  doctor. 


208  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"I  am  hurt  to  death,  then?"  he  asked.  "Tell  me 
truly,  sir,  I  beseech  you,  how  long  I  have  to  live." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  before  the  physician 
answered,  gravely  :  "  Young  sir,  it  is  my  duty  to  bid  you 
prepare  for  death.  I  trust  your  peace  hath  been  already 
made  with  God.  If  Christ  be  your  stay  and  your  con- 
fidence, you  have  nought  to  fear." 

"  Good  sir,  spare  your  exhortations,"  said  the  wounded 
man,  feebly.  "  Roger,"  he  continued,  "  by  the  brotherly 
love  which  was  formerly  between  us,  I  crave  two  boons 
of  thee.  Deny  me  not." 

Roger  bent  over  the  couch,  and  a  great  sob  half 
choked  his  words.  "  Whatsoever  thou  wilt,  brother,  if 
it  lie  in  my  power,  I  will  do  it  for  thee.  But  oh,  sir,  the 
time  is  so  short !  An  hour  since  he  was  lusty  and  well ; 
is  there  no  hope  ?  " 

"  None  in  this  world,  Master  Sparowe"  answered  the 
other,  coldly.  "  As  touching  the  world  to  come,  your 
brother  must  make  his  own  peace  with  it.  If  report 
saith  true,  he  hath  much  whereof  to  unburden  his 
conscience." 

"  I  pray  you,  sir,  to  leave  the  charge  of  that  to  me," 
said  Roger,  with  dignity. 

"  Good,"  replied  the  physician.  "  'Twas  laid  on  me 
to  bear  my  testimony.  But  since  there  lie  now  none 
but  family  matters  between  ye,  suffer  me  to  take  my 
leave  for  this  time.  I  will  be  here  again." 

He  bowed  to  Mistress  Margaret,  but  she  did  not  look 
up.  She  seemed  to  be  stunned,  and  oblivious  of  every- 
thing save  her  son.  It  was  Joan  who  mixed  the  draught, 
and  shifted  the  cushions,  and  shaded  the  light  from  the 
sick  man's  eyes,  weeping  piteously  the  while. 

Roger  came  back,  and  knelt  beside  the  couch.  "What 
wouldest  thou  of  me,  Walter  ?  "  he  asked,  gently.  "  Is 
there  aught  I  can  do  ?  " 

"  Brother,"  whispered  Walter,  eagerly,  trying  to  clasp 
Roger's  hand,  "  wilt  thou  forgive  me  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Walter,  speak  not  of  it.  My  hardness  of  heart 
hath  shamed  me.  I  sought  occasion  before  to  tell  thee 
thou  wast  freely  forgiven,  and  now  it  hath  come  to  this." 


THE  PRICE  OP  THE  RANSOM.  209 

"  Better  so,"  answered  Walter,  "  an  I  do  but  die  at 
peace  with  thee.  Thou  wilt  not  think  bitterly  of  me 
when  I  am  gone?" 

"  Never — never.  Walter,  thy  words  break  my  heart. 
Tis  I  to  ask  pardon  of  thee.  I  was  the  greater  sinner. 
The  Scripture  saith,  '  Until  seventy  times  seven,'  and  I 
would  not  forgive  thee  once." 

"  Nay,  all  is  now  well  between  us.  Peradventure 
thou  wast  harsh  with  me,  but  I  deserved  it.  There  is 
yet  more  "... 

Roger  thought  the  sick  man  was  wandering,  and 
checked  him.  "  Tell  me  how  thou  earnest  to  do  this 
thing  ?  "  he  asked,  gently.  "  Thou  didst  not  fling  thy 
life  away,  because  of  the  difference  betwixt  us  ?  " 

"  No,  'twas  contrived  long  since,  planned  with  Ralph 
when  we  came  hither.  We  thought  but  to  gain  time  for 
the  King,  and  not  that  it  would  lead  to  this.  But  it 
may  be,  I  had  not  done  it  at  the  last  save  that  I  was 
desperate." 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room, 
but  Mistress  Margaret's  low  moans  and  Roger's  sobs. 

"  Wouldest  thou  nothing  more,  Walter,"  he  asked,  at 
last.  "  Let  me  do  something  for  thee  while  I  may." 

The  sick  man  roused  himself.  "  If  thou  wouldest  send 
for  Master  Sturges,"  he  murmured,  "  and  bid  him  come 
forthwith.  Thou  knowest  him.  He  is  one  of  us.  There 
needs  no  concealment  with  him  ;  tell  him  all.  And,  oh, 
Roger,"  he  tried  to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow,  but  sank 
back  with  a  groan,  "  I  cannot  die  in  peace  till  I  know  how 
it  hath  fared  with  the  King.  For  the  sake  of  the  love 
that  is  renewed  between  us,  send  and  have  news  of  him." 

Roger's  brow  darkened.  "  Small  cause  have  we  any 
of  us  to  love  him,"  he  answered.  "  He  hath  cost  us 
dear.  Nevertheless,"  as  Walter  looked  up  imploring  at 
him,  "  I  will  send  as  thou  desirest,  and  thou  shalt  know 
whatever  can  be  known.  And  Master  Sturges  shall  be 
presently  here." 

As  Roger  left  the  room,  and  went  across  the  great 
hall,  now  absolutely  deserted,  he  felt  himself  plucked  by 
the  coat.  Huddled  against  the  door- way,  and  scarcely 

p 


210  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

to  be  distinguished  in  the  deep  shadow  from  the  wall 
behind  her,  crouched  the  unhappy  woman  who  had  first 
given  the  alarm.  Roger  looked  down,  but  he  could  see 
little  more  in  this  dark  corner  than  a  pair  of  fierce, 
bright  eyes,  and  the  gleam  of  a  white  arm. 

"  Master  Sparowe !  "  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  as 
he  tried  impatiently  to  free  himself.  "  Master  Sparowe, 
for  the  love  of  heaven,  tell  me  how  it  fares  with  him. 
Will  he  live  or  die  ?  " 

"  Woman,  let  me  go,"  said  Roger,  roughly.  "  It  is 
thou  who  hast  worked  all  the  mischief  between  us.  But 
for  thee,  this  terrible  evil,  perchance,  had  never  befallen 
our  house.  Begone,  I  say,  or  my  knaves  shall  chase 
thee  hence." 

"  I  cannot  go  until  I  know  how  it  is  with  him,"  she 
answered,  weeping.  "  If  I  have  wronged  him  or  thee,  I 
beseech  you  pardon  me.  Wrong  hath  been  done  to  me 
too — but  no  more  of  that.  For  the  sake  of  the  dear 
Christ,  drive  me  not  away.  I  will  not  enter.  I  will  but 
stay  here  on  the  threshold,  that  I  may  have  news  of  him 
from  them  that  come  and  go.  Sweet  master,  suffer  me 
to  remain." 

Roger  looked  gloomily  at  her.  "  If  he  die — and  he 
must  die — thou  wilt  have  caused  his  death  as  much  as 
any  of  us.  We  have  all  done  wrong — sore  wrong.  The 
Lord  be  merciful  to  us  sinners.  Remain,  didst  thou 
say  ?  Yea,  thou  canst  remain,  if  thou  come  no  further." 

Within  the  room  the  two,  mother  and  son,  were  alone 
together  for  the  last  time.  There  was  a  moment  yet  for 
tender  leaves-taking,  and  for  a  last  heart-broken  farewell. 
But  Mistress  Margaret  said  never  a  word.  Only  she 
gazed  into  her  boy's  dim  eyes  and  ashen  face,  as  if  her 
strong  love  could  bid  defiance  to  death  itself.  And  then 
— such  little  things  attract  our  notice  at  a  moment  of 
supreme  anguish — as  she  passed  her  hand  tenderly  over 
his  fevered  forehead,  she  missed  the  long  brown  curls. 

"  All  gone,  mother,"  said  Walter,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  Ralph  cut  them  with  his  dagger.  Thou  wilt  never 
play  with  my  curls  any  more.  The  King's  head  was 
cropped,  and  my  curls  had  betrayed  me." 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  RANSOM.  211 

Then  he  began  to  wander,  and  fancied  himself  a  child 
at  her  knee,  and  prayed  her  not  to  be  wroth  with  him, 
and  cut  his  curls  off,  because  he  had  been  impatient  over 
the  dressing  of  them.  And  as  his  poor  mind  strayed 
further  and  further,  the  idea  of  the  curls  was  always 
uppermost.  In  a  fevered,  fantastic  way  he  took  no 
count  of  the  life  he  had  given,  but  thought  only  of  the 
bonny  brown  love  locks  he  had  sacrificed  for  his  master. 
And  Mistress  Margaret  knelt  beside  him,  and  though  she 
had  never  seen  anyone  in  delirium  before,  and  shrank 
from  the  sight,  she  was  calm  and  composed,  and 
humoured  him  about  the  curls,  and  soothed  him  with 
prayers  and  tender  words,  as  he  was  able  to  bear  them. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sound  of  hasty  footsteps  in  the 
outer  room.  Mistress  Margaret,  glancing  up,  with  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  saw  Roger  and  Master  Sturges,  and 
beyond  them,  through  the  open  door,  a  woman,  with  a 
white  face  and  wolfish  eyes,  peering  into  the  room.  The 
face  gave  her  a  thrill  of  nameless  horror.  She  turned 
to  Joan,  who  had  entered  with  the  men,  and  pointed  to 
the  door. 

"  'Tis  a  poor  demented  creature,  mistress,  who  will 
not  stir  from  thence.  She  saith  she  hath  the  master's 
leave  to  stay,  and  we  cannot  force  her  away." 

Joan  spoke  between  her  sobs.  She  had  never  ceased 
sobbing  since  Walter  was  first  carried  in  from  the  hall, 
but  her  grief  did  not  prevent  her  from  going  about  the 
business  of  the  sick  room  with  imperturable  steadiness. 

As  soon  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  Roger  had 
bolted  the  door  behind  him,  Master  Sturges  advanced, 
deliberately  took  off  his  black  velvet  cap,  and  raising  his 
hand  said,  solemnly  :  "  Peace  be  to  thee,  my  son,  and  to 
this  house !  " 

Roused  by  the  voice,  Walter  opened  his  eyes,  but 
there  was  no  answering  look  of  recognition  in  them. 
His  lips  moved,  and  he  began  to  babble  feebly  a  few 
incoherent  sentences.  Master  Sturges,  or  Father 
Martin  rather,  looked  with  a  kind  of  horror  at  Mistress 
Margaret. 

"  Is  it  too  late  ?  "  he  asked.     "  Doth  he  not  know  me  ? 


212  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

For,  doubtless,  he  had  a  special  purpose  in  sending  for 
me,  and  I  dare  do  nothing  without  his  free  consent." 

"  Walter,  lad,  dost  thou  not  know  us  ?  "  cried  Roger, 
desperately.  "  Rouse  thee,  brother.  See,  here  is 
Master  Sturges,  whom  thou  didst  ask  for,  and  I  have 
brought  at  much  risk  through  the  streets.  He  doth  not 
hear  me  I  Mother,  canst  thou  do  nothing  ?  " 

"  He  will  revive,"  said  Mistress  Sparowe,  quietly. 
"  Patience,  all  of  you.  Stand  back,  and  give  him  air. 
See  now,  my  son,  dost  thou  not  remember  good  Master 
Sturges  ? " 

Walter  opened  his  eyes,  and  clasped  his  mother's 
hand.  The  priest  stooped  down  and  whispered :  "  Tis 
I,  Father  Martin,  Walter.  Thou  knowest  me  ?  " 

"  Surely,  I  know  you,"  answered  Walter,  in  a  steadier 
voice.  "  Did  I  wander  ?  My  head  groweth  confused, 
but  'tis  only  for  a  moment.  Oh,  father,  sav,  is  the  King 
safe  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  my  son,  but  we  have  sent  a  trusty 
messenger,  who  will  bring  us  news  of  him.  We  shall 
presently  have  tidings.  Meanwhile,  hast  thou  nothing 
further  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  An  the  King  were  safe  !  "  murmured  Walter.  "  Oh, 
if  they  have  pursued  him.  Roger,  thou  hast  not 
betrayed  me  ?  Thou  hast  not  revealed  that  they  shot 
at  another,  and  not  the  King  ?  " 

"  I  have  revealed  nothing,  brother,"  answered  Roger. 
"  But  think  no  more  of  him  thou  callest  the  King. 
Consider  thyself  and  the  salvation  of  thy  soul." 

"  Yea,  my  son,"  exhorted  the  Priest.  "  The  time  hath 
come  for  thee  to  put  away  all  earthly  thoughts.  The 
care  of  thy  soul  is  more  precious  now  than  even  the 
King's  life.  Is,  there  nought  thou  desirest  of  me  ?  " 

Walter  gazed  wistfully  at  him.  "  Father,  thou 
knowest  what  I  would  have,  if  thou  deem  me  worthy"  . . . 

The  priest  drew  a  crucifix  from  under  his  gown,  and 
held  it  to  the  dying  man's  lips.  "  Swear  upon  this  holy 
sign  that  thou  dost  repent  thee  of  thy  sins,  and  art  in 
true  union  with  our  Holy  Mother  Church,  and  the  last 
rites  for  the  departing  soul  shall  not  be  denied  thee." 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  RANSOM.  213 

Roger  sprang  indignantly  to  his  feet,  and  laid  his  hand 
roughly  upon  the  priest's  arm,  but  Father  Martin  shook 
it  off.  With  a  strength  of  which  he  had  seemed 
incapable  a  moment  before,  Walter  took  the  crucifix, 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  then  fixing  his  failing  eyes 
upon  the  priest  he  said  :  "  I  swear,  father.  Grant  me 
now  absolution,  that  I  may  depart  in  peace." 

"  First  declare  thyself  once  more  a  member  of  our 
Holy  Catholic  Church,  that  none  may  think  I  take 
advantage  of  thy  weakness." 

"  Oh,  Walter,  not  that ! "  Roger  burst  out,  with  a  cry 
of  irrepressible  pain.  "  Anything  but  that,  brother. 
We  are  but  newly  reconciled,  and  wouldest  thou  put 
afresh  a  great  gulf  betwixt  us  ?  Thou  art  a  Protestant, 
born  and  bred  in  our  reformed  faith.  I  beseech  thee 
let  me  put  this  knavish  priest  from  the  room." 

Father  Martin  turned  to  Roger,  and  held  up  his  hand. 
"  Sir,  I  pray  you  to  leave  Master  Walter  in  peace. 
You  have  now  no  further  concern  with  him.  He  hath 
been  received  into  the  communion  of  our  Holy  Church, 
and  henceforth  no  heretic  hath  a  right  to  intermeddle." 

"  He  is  no  Catholic ! "  cried  Roger,  desperately. 
"  We  are  no  Papists,  any  of  us.  You  shall  not  do  him 
this  deadly  harm,  and  drag  his  soul  to  perdition,  when 
he  hath  no  strength  to  resist  you.  I  will  see  justice 
done.  Begone,  sir  priest,  from  this  house !  " 

Roger  might  as  well  have  spent  his  passion  against  a 
rock.  Father  Martin  looked  at  him  absolutely  unmoved, 
with  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  Your  words  come  too  late  by  a  whole  year,  Master 
Sparowe.  I  drag  no  soul  to  perdition.  Rather  hath  it 
been  granted  me  to  be  the  lowly  instrument  of  snatching 
this  soul  from  destruction.  This  is  no  thing  of  yesterday. 
Speak,  my  son,  and  tell  him  how  it  is  with  thee,  and 
that  thou  art  not  a  death-bed  convert  to  our  Holy 
Catholic  faith." 

Walter  looked  up  at  his  brother,  and  even  in  this 
supreme  moment  he  flinched  from  the  wrath  he  saw  in 
Roger's  eyes. 

"  Roger,  forgive  me  this  last  deceit,"  he  murmured. 


214  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  I  dared  not  tell  thee.  Thou  wast  so  stern,  so  strict. 
Thou  wouldest  have  driven  me  from  the  house,  hadst 
thou  known.  And  now  .  .  .  Brother,  look  not  at  me  in 
anger.  Let  me  die  at  peace  with  thee  and  all  men." 

Roger  turned  away,  and  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands  groaned  aloud.  "  Oh,  Walter,  what  hast  thou 
done  ?  Thou  hast  deceived  me,  poor  lad,  but  thou  hast 
deceived  thyself  also.  Now  art  thou  doomed  to  eternal 
perdition,  through  the  machinations  of  this  crafty  priest. 
Brother,  aught  else  I  could  have  borne,  but  this,  that 
thou  hast  joined  thyself  to  the  enemies  of  the  Lord,  to 
the  scarlet  woman,  to  anti-Christ  "... 

Father  Martin  touched  his  arm.  "  Pardon  me, 
Master  Sparowe,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "  but  I  cannot 
suffer  you  in  my  presence  to  speak  thus  of  our  Holy 
Mother,  the  Church.  Nor  hath  any  craft  been  used  in 
this  matter.  Master  Walter  joined  us  of  his  own  free 
will  a  twelve  month  since,  as  I  have  told  you." 

"  Ye  are  all  in  league,  everyone  of  you,  to  deceive  me," 
cried  Roger,  with  a  burst  of  uncontrollable  passion. 
"Thou  too,  mother"  .  .  . 

"  Your  pardon  again,"  returned  the  priest.  "  Mistress 
Margaret  knew  nought  of  this  business.  I  gave  her  to 
understand  that  I  was  a  priest  of  the  reformed  faith, 
and  as  such  she  welcomed  me  here.  Our  Holy  Church 
bids  us  wear  many  disguises,  but  the  end  justifieth 
the  means.  Enough  of  these  worldly  matters.  Master 
Sparowe,  your  brother  hath  not  many  minutes  to  live. 
I  pray  you,  nay,  I  desire  you  to  withdraw,  that^I  may 
administer  the  last  ghostly  consolations  to  him.  The 
Church  suffers  none  to  depart  out  of  this  world  un- 
shriven  and  unabsolved.  Even  you,  I  take  it,  would 
scarce  wish  him  to  die  without  spiritual  comfort." 

Roger  turned  upon  the  priest  a  look  full  of  rage  and 
hatred.  Father  Martin  answered  it  with  the  same  deadly 
composure  he  had  maintained  throughout.  Bending 
over  Walter,  Roger  asked :  "  Dost  thou  wish  it,  Walter  ? 
Shall  I  leave  thee  for  this  priest  to  work  his  will  on 
thee  ?  I  will  not  go  unless  thou  bid  me." 

"  Go,"  whispered  Walter,  feebly.     "  For  a  few  minutes, 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  RANSOM.  215 

brother,  I  would  be  alone  with  him.  And,  oh  !  bring  me 
news  of  the  King  when  thou  hast  it." 

With  a  sigh  wrung  from  the  very  depths  of  his  heart, 
Roger  left  the  room,  so  absorbed  in  his  grief,  that  for  the 
moment  he  did  not  even  think  of  his  mother.  During 
the  scene  Mistress  Margaret  had  sat  with  her  hand  in 
Walter's,  a  passive,  perhaps  an  unconscious  spectator. 
She  betrayed  no  surprise  when  Walter  announced  him- 
self a  Catholic,  and  Father  Martin  was  obliged  to  raise 
her  gently  from  her  chair,  before  he  could  make  her 
understand  that  she,  too,  must  leave  the  room. 

In  the  outer  hall  the  woman  still  crouched  by  the 
threshold  of  the  door.  She  looked  up  wistfully  at  mother 
and  son  as  they  passed  her,  but  she  dared  not  speak. 
And  indeed  there  was  no  need  to  ask  for  tidings  from 
the  sick  room  ;  hopelessness  was  written  on  every  face. 

Mistress  Margaret  sank  into  the  chair  Joan  placed 
for  her  and  sat  motionless,  as  she  had  sat  all  the 
morning,  only  now  and  then  making  a  feeble  movement 
with  her  hand,  as  if  she  was  still  caressing  Walter's 
sunny  curls.  Joan  stood  beside  her  mistress,  and 
murmured  over  and  over  again,  as  if  she  were  repeating 
a  kind  of  charm  :  "  I  knew  'twould  be  thus  ;  I  knew  it 
from  the  moment  he  crossed  the  threshold  left  foot 
first.  Ah,  my  bonny  lad !  and  he  to  go  left  foot  first. 
The  next  time  'twill  be  in  his  coffin." 

Roger  leant  against  the  lattice  window,  idly  watching 
the  scene  before  him.  He  was  half-maddened  with 
grief.  Within  there,  Walter,  his  only  brother  Walter, 
lay  a  dying.  Dying  a  hero's  death,  but  dying  in  com- 
munion with  a  church  which  Roger  held  to  be  worse 
than  atheism.  Terrible  as  had  been  the  constraint  he 
had  put  upon  himself  the  last  few  days,  nothing  equalled 
the  horror  of  the  discovery  that  his  own  brother  was  a 
Papist. 

The  pause  did  not  last  long.  The  door  was  soon 
thrown  open  again,  and  Father  Martin  beckoned  Roger 
forward. 

"  He  hath  something  more  on  his  mind,  poor  boy, 
which  he  would  fain  say  to  you,"  he  whispered.  "  And 


216  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

his  mother,"  for  Mistress  Margaret  had  looked  up  at 
sight  of  the  priest,  "  she  must  come,  too,  He  will  not 
last  long  now,  I  fear." 

The  priest  was  right.  The  moment  he  reached  his 
brother,  Roger  saw  that  ashen  look  on  his  face  which 
none  can  ever  mistake.  And  at  the  sight  all  his  anger 
at  Walter's  perfidy,  his  idle  life,  his  unrepented  sins, 
vanished,  and  a  mighty  tide  of  love  and  sorrow  filled  his 
heart.  He  took  his  brother's  cold  hand,  and  tried  once 
more  to  bring  a  look  of  recollection  into  his  dim  eyes. 

"  Walter,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  gently.  "  Hast  ought 
more  to  speak  of  to  me  ?  Is  there  anything  further 
whereof  thou  wouldest  ease  thy  mind  ?  " 

"  The  woman,"  answered  Walter,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty, "  She  whom  thou  wottest  of.  They  must  not 
starve,  Roger,  she  and  hers.  I  have  money — money 
which  thou  wilt  now  inherit  of  me.  Let  her  have  it,  as 
much  as  is  fitting.  And  oh,  brother  !  'tis  my  last  prayer 
to  thee,"  Walter  roused  himself  for  a  final  effort,  "  tell 
not  my  mother  of  it.  Keep  the  knowledge  from  her,  as 
thou  canst  do.  Roger,  forgive  me." 

"  As  I  hope  myself  to  be  forgiven,  Walter.  The  Lord 
receive  us  both  to  His  everlasting  mercy,  though  we 
come  to  it  by  ways  so  diverse.  Fear  not !  I  will  do  all 
that  thou  canst  wish.  But  oh  !  to  lose  thee  in  such  a 
cause." 

"  No  man  can  die  in  a  nobler  cause,"  spoke  Father 
Martin  from  the  foot  of  the  couch.  "  Walter  hath  given 
himself  for  him  who  is  most  precious  to  all  of  us — our 
King.  My  son,  thou  hast  laid  down  thy  life  in  this 
sacred  cause,  and  the  sacrifice  is  accepted." 

A  faint  smile  lit  up  Walter's  face.  "  Ah,  if  it  were 
so  !  "  he  sighed.  «•  But  the  King !  the  King !  I  cannot 
die  until  I  know  that  the  King  hath  escaped." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  voices  in  the 
next  room.  Joan  hurried  to  the  door,  but  Roger  was 
before  her.  Opening,  he  beckoned  to  someone  who 
stood  without,  and  the  next  moment  admitted  a  man 
booted  and  spurred,  bespattered  with  mud,  and  hot  with 
the  haste  of  the  journey. 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  RANSOM.  217 

"  Dost  thou  bring  news  ?  "  asked  Roger,  cautiously. 

Before  the  man  could  answer,  there  was  a  cry  from 
the  couch,  and  Walter,  raising  himself  on  his  elbow, 
gasped :  "  Let  him  come  hither.  Speak,  man.  The 
King !  Hath  the  King  escaped  ?  " 

"  He  hath,"  answered  the  man.  "  He  is  far  on  his 
journey  to  the  West.  There  was  no  pursuit.  Ere  now, 
he  hath  ridden  twenty  miles  from  hence." 

"  Now  God  be  praised !  "  exclaimed  Walter  ;  then,  as 
he  sank  back  a  moment  after,  he  murmured :  "  Mary, 
mother  of  God,  have  mercy  on  me !  Brother,  thy  hand. 
Kiss  me,  mother.  The  King  hath  escaped !  the  King 
hath  escaped ! " 

And  before  Roger  could  realise  that  the  end  had 
come,  Walter  Sparowe,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  had 
passed  away. 


218 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE    END. 


THE  mourners  were  still  standing  round  the  couch, 
scarcely  able  to  believe  that  their  care  was  no  longer 
needed,  when  the  silence  was  rudely  broken.  There  was 
a  sound  of  noisy  wrangling  in  the  great  hall,  and  a  voice 
peremptorily  demanding  admittance.  In  terror  lest  the 
mistake  had  been  discovered,  and  the  mob  had  returned 
to  complete  their  vengeance,  Roger  tore  himself  from 
the  room,  and  went  out.  Two  or  three  of  his  men,  with 
white,  terrified  faces,  were  standing  in  front  of  the 
entrance  door  which,  already  battered,  and  half-torn 
from  its  hinges,  they  had  been  unable  to  keep  closed. 
Upon  the  threshold  stood  Master  Burroughs,  more 
arrogant,  more  self  important,  than  Roger  had  ever  seen 
him  before. 

"  What  meaneth  this,  Master  Sparowe  ? "  he  cried, 
indignantly,  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  Roger.  "  I 
come  to  pay  you  a  peaceable  visit,  and  these  knaves  here 
assault  me,  and  forbid  the  way,  as  though  I  meant  to  do 
you  an  injury.  'Tis  the  first  time  that  ever  your  door 
was  shut  against  me,  and  I  trow  it  shall  be  the  last. 
Marry,  I  came  hither  to  give  you  a  word  of  friendly 
warning,  but,  an  I  am  thus  roughly  handled,  I  will 
hence,  and  lodge  my  complaint  in  the  right  quarter." 

"The  warning  is  not  needed,  good  Master  Burroughs," 
said  Roger,  in  a  low  voice.  "  You  have  not  heard  then 
of  that  which  hath  befallen  us  ?  " 

"  Heard,  ay,  I  have  heard  enough,"  answered  the 
angry  Puritan.  "  I  have  heard  that  which  mine  ears 
can  scarce  credit,  Master  Sparowe.  That  you,  whom  I 
took  to  be  a  godly  servant  of  the  Lord,  have  here  in 
hiding  that  arch  rebel  himself,  Charles  Stuart.  Fie  on 
you  for  an  arrogant  hypocrite,  I  say." 


THE    END.  219 

"  He  is  here  no  longer,"  replied  Roger,  quietly. 
"  And  I  pray  you,  sir,  seek  some  more  convenient  season 
for  your  visit  and  your  reproaches.  We  can  ill  bear  the 
presence  of  any  stranger  to-day." 

"  Doubtless  my  presence  is  unwelcome,"  returned 
Master  Burroughs,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  But  I  would 
have  you  observe,  good  sir,  that  there  can  never  be 
peace  in  this  house  so  long  as  your  mother  and  your 
brother"  .  .  . 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  Roger,  peremptorily.  "  Sir,  cease 
your  railings ;  they  avail  no  longer.  Suffer  me,  I  pray 
you,  to  withdraw." 

He  turned  and  would  have  left  the  hall,  but  Master 
Burroughs,  hurrying  after  him  as  fast  as  his  portly 
dignity  would  allow,  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said : 
"  Softly,  my  son.  You  speak  in  riddles.  Hath  aught 
happened  that  I  know  not  of,  to  make  you  so  strange 
of  mood  to-day  ?  Methinks  I  should  have  been  told 
thereof  on  entering." 

As  Roger  did  not  answer,  the  old  man  turned  to  the 
servants.  "Ho,  you  knaves!  Come  hither,  one  of 
you,  and  tell  me  what  hath  befallen.  Your  master 
seemeth  half  distraught,  and  the  door  is  broken,  and  .  .  . 
ah,  what  is  this  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Master  Burroughs'  voluble  talk  was 
interrupted  by  the  sight  of  a  stain,  a  hideous,  unmistake- 
able  blood  stain  on  the  floor.  The  men  crowrded  round 
to  look.  Roger  leant  back  over  against  the  wall  with  a 
groan,  and  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"  'Twas  here  they  shot  him,"  said  one  of  the  men  in 
an  awe-struck  whisper.  "  Look  you,  what  a  pool  it 
made  !  " 

"Ay,  'tis  his  heart's  blood." 

"  Shot  him  !  Shot  whom  ?  "  cried  Master  Burroughs, 
stamping  his  foot  impatiently.  "  Speak  out,  men.  Are 
ye  all  spell-bound,  like  your  master  ?" 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  at  Roger. 
"  'Twas  a  mob  that  came  hither,"  said  one  of  them. 

"Ay,  and  raised  a  tumult,"  continued  another,  "and 
we  held  the  door  until  they  burst  it  open." 


220  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  A  mob !  a  tumult  1  and  wherefore  ?  "  asked  the 
Puritan. 

"They  came  to  seek  some  man  who  was  in  hiding 
here,  they  said,"  answered  two  or  three  at  once,  "  but 
we  knew  of  none  such,  save  Master  Wentworth  and  his 
man.  And  as  they  were  like  to  have  killed  his  honour, 
Master  Walter  came  forth  in  strange  clothes  "... 

"  Like  to  those  the  serving  lad  wore  when  he  came," 
suggested  another,  and  then  there  was  a  long  pause. 

"  Walter  came  forth,  did  he  ?  "  said  Master  Burroughs 
nodding  his  head  sagely.  "  Ha,  ha  1  As  I  had  thought. 
And  then  .  .  .  and  then  "... 

"They  shot  at  him,"  said  one  of  the  men,  in  a  tone 
of  horror. 

"  Shot  at  him,  man  ?  Come,  look  up  and  speak  out. 
Did  they  hurt  him  ?  " 

Roger  moved  to  go,  but  Master  Burroughs  stopped  him 
again.  "  Tarry,  my  son.  I  must  sift  this  matter  to  the 
bottom,"  he  said,  pompously.  "  Mine  office  demands  it. 
The  Council  of  State  will  send  to  inquire  concerning  it, 
and  I  must  be  ready  with  the  information.  How  could 
such  a  tumult  befall,  and  no  notice  thereof  given  to  me  ?  " 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Master  Burroughs  looked 
at  the  men,  and  singling  out  one  of  them,  said,  angrily, 
"  Sirrah,  speak  and  tell  me  what  happened.  Who  stayed 
the  mob  ?  And  Master  Walter,  was  he  wounded  ?  " 

"He  is  dead!" 

Master  Burroughs  looked  incredulously  at  the  speaker. 
"  Dead  1  how  could  that  be  ?  Why  I  saw  him  here 
yesterday,  alive  and  well,  had  sight  of  him  at  a  window 
as  I  rode  off.  Roger,  lad,  speak,  and  give  this  foolish 
knave  the  lie." 

But  Roger  did  not  speak,  and  even  Master  Burroughs 
grew  appalled  at  the  ominous  silence. 

"Not  our  handsome  Walter!"  he  cried,  suddenly. 
"  Not  the  merry  boy  whom  I  dandled  on  my  knee  in  his 
father's  time,  and  played  with  his  pretty  curls.  My  son, 
say  it  is  not  Walter." 

"  It  is  Walter,"  answered  Roger,  in  a  hollow  voice. 
"He  hath  given  his  life  for  him  whom  he  called  his 


THE    END.  221 

King.  Whether  he  were  right  or  wrong  God  alone 
knoweth,  who  hath  taken  him  from  us." 

"  Oh,  lad !  oh,  Roger  !  and  I  was  harsh  with  thee  when 
thou  wast  in  such  grief.  How  could  it  be  ?  How  went 
the  matter  ?  Tell  me,  prithee,  some  of  you." 

Now  that  their  master  had  spoken,  the  tongues  of  the 
men  were  loosened,  and  they  began  to  give  circum- 
stantial and  sometimes  conflicting  accounts  of  the  tumult, 
adding  the  most  extravagant  details.  Suddenly  Roger 
held  up  his  hand,  and  said :  "  Peace,  good  fellows.  Here, 
at  such  a  time,  much  talk  is  unseemly.  I  thank  you  for 
all  the  good  service  rendered  me  this  day.  It  shall  not 
be  forgotten.  Now  let  every  man  get  to  his  work. 
Master  Burroughs,"  he  turned  with  an  effort  to  the 
Puritan,  "  pardon  my  discourtesy.  I  scarce  know  what 
I  say,  but  'twould  disturb  my  mother  if  you  came 
further.  Suffer  me  here  to  bid  you  farewell." 

"  Hold,  my  son,"  said  Master  Burroughs.  "  I  cannot 
part  thus  from  thee.  Tell  me  how  fares  it  with  thy 
poor  mother.  And,  oh  !  if  my  sharp  words  have  grieved 
thee,  forgive  me.  I  knew  not  when  I  came  that  the 
Lord  hath  laid  his  hand  so  heavily  on  thee." 

"  The  Lord's  hand  hath  lain  heavily  on  me  for  many 
a  day,"  answered  Roger,  wearily.  "  Doubtless  'tis  for 
my  sins  that  he  hath  thus  afflicted  me.  Trouble  and 
sorrow  are  no  new  thing  to  me,  but  this  blow  toucheth 
me  nearly." 

"  And  thy  poor  mother  ?  " 

"  She  hath  not  moved,  nor  spoken,  nor  wept," 
answered  Roger,  in  a  half-frightened  tone,  "  though  she 
wept  much  when  my  father  died.  She  is  as  cold  and 
quiet  as  "...  he  stopped,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Some  one  must  be  with  her,"  said  Master  Burroughs, 
shaking  his  head.  "  These  tender  women  are  not  able 
to  bear  up  alone  against  such  a  stress  of  trouble.  I 
have  heard  Alice  say  so  many  a  time.  Hath  she  no 
friend,  no  kinswoman,  who  might  be  with  her  ?  " 

"  Friends  hath  she  in  plenty,  but  not  such  as  would  help 
her  at  this  pass.  And  her  kinsfolk  are  all  far  distant,  in 
London  and  in  the  North.  None  of  them  could  come." 


222  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

"  But  some  one  must  thou  have,  to  aid  thee  with  her, 
my  poor  lad,  and  thou  art  not  fit  to  give  much  comfort 
thyself.  Women  at  such  a  time  are  more  helpful  than 
men.  Would  she  suffer  mine  Alice,  think  you  ?  The 
girl  hath  a  rare  gift  for  comfort." 

The  gleam  of  almost  wild  joy  which  lighted  up  Roger's 
haggard  face  for  a  moment  was  answer  sufficient  that, 
to  one  member  at  least  of  that  grief-stricken  household, 
Alice  would  be  a  ministering  angel. 

"  Oh,  if  she  could  come  !  "  he  sighed.  "  But  it  is  far, 
and  the  days  grow  short.  And  'tis  no  fit  house  to  bring 
a  blythe*young  maiden  to,  like  Mistress  Alice." 

"  Alice  taketh  no  thought  for  her  own  comfort  when 
there  is  trouble  in  a  house,"  answered  Master  Burroughs. 
"  Oft  have  I  heard  her  say  that  she  would  sooner  go  to 
a  house  of  mourning  than  of  mirth.  She  shall  be  here 
before  nightfall ;  myself  will  bring  her,  and  the  Lord 
grant  her  to  help  thy  poor  mother." 

It  was  not  till  the  close  of  the  day  that  a  true  version 
of  what  had  happened  in  "  Sparowe's  house  "  began  to 
circulate  in  the  town.  For  some  hours  Walter's  artifice 
succeeded.  It  was  positively  affirmed  by  all  the  rioters 
that  Charles  Stuart  himself,  the  man  of  sin,  had  at  last 
been  given  over  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  and  was 
lying  dead  or  dying  in  the  Old  House.  Roger's  declaration 
that  the  man  was  wounded  to  death,  the  close  quarters 
at  which  the  fight  had  occurred,  and  the  sight  a  few  of 
the  rioters  had  obtained  of  the  wounded  man,  as  he  was 
carried  away,  were  so  many  convincing  proofs  that  he 
could  not  have  escaped  with  his  life.  No  domiciliary 
visit  from  a  Magistrate  or  other  official  was  thought 
necessary  under  the  circumstances,  nor  was  it  considered 
seemly  to  disturb  the  dying  man's  last  hours.  The 
corporation  contented  themselves  with  setting  a  close 
watch  round  the  house,  to  prevent  the  body  from  being 
carried  off,  in  which  they  were  aided  by  the  soldiers, 
who  had  arrived  from  Colchester  too  late  to  be  of  other 
use.  Satisfied  with  these  precautionary  measures,  the 
authorities  remained  quiet  till  the  evening.  No  pursuit 
was  made  after  the  real  fugitives,  and  by  the  time  the 


THE    END.  223 

mistake  was  discovered,  Wentworth  and  his  companion 
were  already  many  miles  on  their  way  westward. 

As  the  day  wore  on  doubts,  originating  no  one  knew 
whence,  began  to  be  whispered  about  the  town,  that 
"mob  justice"  had  not  this  time  been  real  justice  after 
all.  Vague  rumours  were  afloat  of  a  dire  tragedy  which 
had  befallen  the  Sparowes.  And  at  last  it  was  judged 
expedient  to  clear  up  these  shifting  reports,  and  to  set 
the  matter  finally  at  rest.  Accordingly  a  justice  of  the 
peace  was  deputed  to  go  to  the  "  Old  House,"  attended 
by  a  physician  and  a  notary,  to  attest  that  the  body  now 
known  to  be  lying  there  was  actually  that  of  Charles 
Stuart,  the  late  King  of  Scots. 

The  revulsion  of  feeling  that  ensued  when  the  truth 
was  known  surprised  even  Roger  himself,  little  as  he 
was  accustomed  to  take  count  of  such  matters.  For 
some  time  he  had  been  aware  of  a  growing  bitterness 
in  the  town  against  him  and  his  family.  Mistress 
Margaret's  dainty  town-bred  ways,  and  staunch  adherence 
to  the  proscribed  Church,  had  always  been  a  stumbling 
block  to  the  godly  Puritan  dames  of  Ipswich.  And 
when  it  was  known  that  her  younger  son  was  following 
in  her  steps,  and  was  even  more  popishly  inclined  than 
his  mother,  nothing  but  respect  for  the  name  of  Sparowe 
prevented  the  virtual  ostracism  of  the  whole  family. 

Of  late,  too,  it  had  been  darkly  hinted  that  a  priest 
had  actually  been  seen,  in  broad  daylight,  standing  at 
one  of  the  upper  windows  of  the  house,  and  old  people 
recalled  a  dim  tradition  of  their  youth  that  a  chapel,  in 
some  mysterious  way,  formed  part  of  the  Old  House. 
At  the  meetings  of  the  town  council,  Roger  had  often 
been  obliged  to  bear  angry  looks  and  frowns,  sharp 
words,  and  threatening  hints ;  and  the  knowledge  that, 
through  no  fault  of  his  own,  he  was  suspected  of  com- 
plicity in  practices  he  reprobated  as  heartily  as  any 
Puritan  could  do,  had  added  another  to  his  many 
burdens. 

All  this  was  changed  in  a  moment.  Each  man  in  the 
town  felt  himself,  in  some  way,  personally  implicated  in 
the  riot,  and  everyone  was  thrilled  with  horror  at  the 


224  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

terrible  result  of  it.  The  tide  turned  suddenly.  The 
name  of  Sparowe,  but  a  short  time  since  a  bye-word  for 
reproach,  was  extolled  to  the  skies.  People  even  talked 
of  sending  a  deputation  to  Roger  to  condole  with  him, 
and  were  scarcely  to  be  deterred  from  it.  Perhaps  the 
best  way,  after  all,  of  showing  their  sympathy  was 
by  respecting,  as  everyone  in  the  town  did,  the  rigid 
seclusion  in  which  Roger  buried  himself.  For  a  whole 
month  after  Walter's  death,  a  long  time  in  those  stirring, 
active  days,  when  there  was  so  much  to  do,  and  so  few 
to  do  it,  he  was  allowed  to  indulge  his  grief  in  the  quiet 
of  the  Old  House. 

The  matter  was  of  necessity  reported  to  head-quarters, 
and  the  Council  of  State  sent  down  a  Commission  from 
London  to  inquire  into  it.  They  had  orders,  if  his  guilt 
could  be  proved,  to  commit  Master  Roger  Sparowe  to 
prison,  for  harbouring  Malignants.  But  the  Borough 
authorities  gave  so  moving  an  account  of  the  affair  that 
the  Commissioners,  after  much  talking  and  consulting, 
went  back  to  London  without  troubling  Roger  with  a 
single  question.  And  in  such  wise  did  they  place  all 
the  circumstances  before  the  Council  of  State  that  the 
matter  was  dropped,  with  the  more  reason  because 
certain  intelligence  was  soon  after  received,  that  Charles 
had  escaped  to  France  from  the  South  Coast. 

All  this  and  much  more  kind  feeling,  the  very  existence 
of  which  Roger  had  never  suspected,  he  began  to  find 
out,  when  he  showed  himself  again  in  the  streets  of  his 
native  town.  And  he  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that, 
with  the  fickle  townsfolk,  the  process  of  canonizing  his 
brother  had  already  commenced.  Poor  Walter,  in  spite 
of  his  faults  and  short-comings,  had  always  been  a 
favourite  with  them,  and  they  were  now  disposed  to 
look  upon  him  as  a  martyr,  half  against  his  will,  to  his 
erring  but  heroic  principles.  The  popular  indignation 
fell  upon  Charles,  to  whom,  now  safe  in  France,  it  did 
not  matter  a  jot ;  and  he  was  openly  stigmatized  as  a 
coward  and  a  villain,  who  had  allowed  another  man  to 
sacrifice  his  life  in  his  stead. 

It  was  remarked,  however,  by  those  who  observed  him 


THE    END.  225 

closely,  that  Master  Sparowe,  though  he  was  worn  and 
pale,  and  more  haggard  than  many  a  man  of  double  his 
years,  had  yet  a  far  more  peaceful  look,  since  his 
brother's  death,  than  anyone  had  ever  seen  in  him  before. 
His  brows  were  no  longer  contracted,  his  lips  no  longer 
trembled  as  they  used  to  do.  His  face  was  sad  but 
calm.  For  the  terrible  weight  which  had  oppressed 
Roger  for  the  last  year  was  gone.  Never  again,  so  he 
hoped  and  believed,  would  there  be  any  concealment 
between  him  and  his  mother.  Never  again  would  he  be 
forced  to  shrink  from  the  sight  of  his  fellow-citizens, 
oppressed  with  the  weight  of  a  terrible  secret  which 
was  none  of  his  choosing.  Peace  had  come,  though 
purchased  at  a  fearful  cost,  and  all  the  dissembling  and 
equivocation  which  had  tried  him  more  than  open 
warfare,  were  buried  in  poor  Walter's  grave. 

There  was  another  reason  for  the  peace  and  content 
which  everyone,  to  their  astonishment,  read  in  Roger's 
face.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  silent,  lonely 
man,  had  found  some  one  to  understand  him.  Alice 
Burroughs  had  shared  this  month  of  seclusion  with  him 
and  his  mother,  contenting  herself  with  hasty  visits  from 
time  to  time  to  Mote  End,  to  look  after  her  poor  sick 
folk.  And  during  this  month  Roger  had  entered  upon 
an  altogether  new  experience.  He  had  learnt  what  help 
and  comfort  a  true-hearted  woman  can  give  to  a  man. 
Life  without  Alice  had  seemed  difficult  before ;  he  knew 
that  from  henceforth  it  would  be  impossible.  All  those 
qualities  in  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  deficient  he 
found  in  her.  As  if — so  at  least  he  thought — her 
character  completed  and  filled  out  his  own  ;  as  if  it  was 
granted  to  them  to  realise  the  perfect  harmony  of  two 
natures,  which  poets  dream  of,  but  to  which  so  few 
attain. 

Something  approximating  very  nearly  to  this  perfect 
union  Roger  did  nevertheless  achieve,  when,  after  a  year 
of  waiting,  insisted  on,  no  one  quite  knew  why,  by  Kezia 
and  Master  Burroughs,  he  brought  Alice  at  last  to  the 
fair  and  stately  house  which  was  henceforth  to  be  her 
home.  There  had  long  ceased  to  be  any  question 


226  A  KING'S  RANSOM. 

whether  Mistress  Margaret  should  live  with  them  or  not. 
Between  her  and  Alice,  between  the  mother  without  a 
daughter,  and  the  girl  who  had  grown  to  womanhood 
without  a  mother,  there  had  sprung  up  a  love  so  deep 
and  touching,  that  even  Kezia  allowed  it  might  be  well 
not  to  separate  them.  For  Mistress  Margaret  was  never 
the  same  after  the  tragedy  of  Walter's  death.  She 
became  suddenly  and  prematurely  old.  Her  bright 
spirits,  and  the  singular  youthfulness  of  face  and  mind 
which  had  characterized  her  vanished  when  her  youngest 
and  best-loved  child  was  laid  in  his  grave.  Her  hair 
turned  white ;  she  grew  feeble  and  quiet,  and  though  as 
sweet  tempered  as  ever,  she  would  sometimes  chide  her 
son  and  daughter  if  they  left  her  long  alone.  She  clung 
to  Roger,  and  to  the  wife  who  was  scarcely  less  dear  to 
her  than  he,  with  a  wistful  tenderness  which  was 
inexpressibly  touching. 

Two  winters  after,  when  all  England  was  astir  with 
the  news  that  the  great  General  had  consented  to 
become  Lord  Protector  of  the  Commonwealth,  there 
came  a  stir,  too,  into  the  quiet  household  at  Ipswich. 
Mistress  Margaret  had  been  failing  sadly  of  late,  but 
she  lived  to  see  that  the  good  old  name  of  Sparowe  was 
not  to  die  out,  as  she  had  often  feared.  And  when  Alice 
and  Roger's  first-born  child  was  put  into  her  arms,  she 
laid  down  willingly  the  burden  of  life,  which  had  grown 
so  heavy  for  her. 

And  with  her  last  breath  she  prayed  her  children  to 
call  the  boy — Walter. 


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